


Strawberry Blond

by albxnx



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Romance, Dating, Depression, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Healing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mild Time Skip Spoilers, Miscommunication, Mourning Hanamaki, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Time Skip, References to Depression, Romance, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragic Romance, funeral home employee Matsukawa, grieving process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albxnx/pseuds/albxnx
Summary: Swan Song: a song of great sweetness said to be sung by a dying swan; the last act or manifestation of someone or something, farewell appearanceMatsukawa met Hanamaki on an early autumn afternoon, and ever since that day, his heart won't settle. There's a bittersweet love-song in his mind, and a strawberry blond lover before him.Credits for the lyrics go to Mitski for Strawberry Blond.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	Strawberry Blond

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: Please Heed the Tags  
> Mentions of suicidal thoughts, mentions of depression, mentions of death, major character death

There’s a cafe near the angle of Montebello Street which holds a special spot in Matsukawa’s heart. He would always sit down at its outdoor tables to grab a drink whenever his day went poorly, and he knew for a fact that the owner enjoyed his company and his duly paid bills.

Had you told him he would become a coffee shop regular in his twenties, he would not have believed you. Matsukawa had always been one to go for the bars and nightclubs back in highschool, so he had been the first surprised to enjoy a nice cup of tea three to four times a week.

Adulthood had its lessons that Issei had understood fast enough. First, warmth can be scarce, so your only option is to cherish its presence so it blooms and stays. Second, tea is a decent substitute for human warmth, when life drives you away from those you love.

Matsukawa would not have described his choices as a long, hopeful journey to a city gorged with possibilities, but rather as the direct consequences of losing a drifting beach ball in the currents of a peaceful ocean. It wasn’t dangerous to let go, as long as you did not struggle to swim back to the shore.

And so Matsukawa drifted away, away from friends and family, to a new city and a new job. He settled there, took a loan to buy an apartment, and paid back his credit by working as a funeral home employee; yet another thing he would not have believed had you mentioned it a few years ago.

He satisfied his craving for warmth with a cup of tea, and his desire for familiarity with a single cafe he remained faithful to. Nothing should have sent him drifting away again, for nothing should have disturbed this little cocoon of a life he had knitted for himself.

He was happy. Genuinely so.

His routines and lonely life were notes in a soft melody he had composed, and he found great pleasure in the stability of his heart and mind. There was no such thing as regrets, no such thing as loneliness; he was not the epitome of the abyssal fall that clings to depressive people in fictional worlds.

He was genuinely happy, genuinely at peace with himself. He did not fear change nor inertia, for his life was but a drifting state of events; what had to shift would shift, what had to remain would remain.

And he lived by those truths like anchor points, finding in them the undeniable stability of a life well started.

Autumn had brought with its fire-coloured coat a familiar golden coldness that characterized its early days. There was no better moment to enjoy a cup of tea than that sweet embrace between summer and fall, a last sunny sky to wave goodbye at an arriving chill.

Matsukawa had his afternoon free, so he had decided to spend it at his usual table, back to a coniferous shrub that decorated the side-walk terrace. He was lost in thoughts, sipping his hot drink with absent-minded slowness.

Nothing should have drifted his way, in that moment, and yet nothing should not have. It was sheer coincidence that brought the pink-brown haired man that had just walked out of the shop with a coffee mug in hand to deviate from the street to end up plopping on the chair opposite Matsukawa’s.

The young man blinked in docile confusion, setting his cup on the table as a smile crept up his lips.

“Why hello, there~”

His new seat mate did not look much embarrassed by the situation, nor did he seem like a man who had intruded a stranger’s personal space. Quite the opposite, really: he had a satisfied smile on the lips, which convinced Matsukawa that this peculiar situation was no mistake on the curious man’s behalf.

“Hey, care if I join? You seem like you could use a friend, and frankly, so do I...”

Issei found himself smiling a bit wider at the cheeky tone, mentally appreciating his interlocutor’s lovely voice.

“Do you, now? You seem like quite the easy-going fellow… Your kind makes friends with a few jokes and a smile...”

He watched as the other’s eyes widened a little, probably taken aback by the equally teasing tone.

Like a playful game of surprises, Matsukawa felt his heart melt a little upon seeing the stranger throwing his head back in a barking laughter. It made him giggle, unconsciously shifting in his seat to give him his full attention.

“Why that’s- That’s a funny way to put it,” the brown-haired man chuckled, wiping a few tears away. Or maybe was he blond? A dark shade of blond, or a light one of brown…

“My _kind…_ I suppose I must understand that you are not an easy-going person?”

Cheeky tone again, and Matsukawa forgot all about the warmth of his tea.

He smiled, shaking his head.

“I’m as carefree as can be, but _my_ kind doesn’t sit unprompted at a stranger’s table to make new friends...” he simply answered, bringing the cup to his lips in dismissive amusement.

The stranger cocked an eyebrow, resting his arms on the table as he twirled his coffee in one hand. His eyes shone with such tender interest that Matsukawa would have almost teased him about it.

“I’m Hanamaki Takahiro,” he grinned, “There, I’m not a stranger anymore, am I?”

Matsukawa thought for a few seconds, before shaking his head, “I know all about Lady Gaga’s life, and that doesn’t make her any less of a stranger to me. Try again, will you?”

Hanamaki seemed a bit taken aback, and Issei prided himself in seeing a light blush spreading on his cheeks as he thought of something to say. His eyes fell onto the table, and he pressed the coffee cup to his lips, deep in thoughts. He then gasped, and a drop of liquid ran down his chin.

Matsukawa watched as he wiped it away with a sleeve, before pointing a finger at him.

“Well, if you want to know more about me, let me tell you this: I’m in between jobs, I love profiteroles, and my friends call me Makki. Your turn, give me three facts about yourself.”

He was grinning like a villain challenging a hero, and Matsukawa did not have the heart to tease him again. He simply thought for a few seconds, before gazing up.

“I’m a funeral home employee, I love cheeseburgers, and I don’t have a nickname. Does that count as a fun fact?”

He caught the soft glimmer that lit Makki’s eyes up before dimming down, but it happened too fast for him to overthink it. Already, Hanamaki was shaking his head, crossing his arms in disapproval.

“Not having a nickname is not a fun fact, no. At least give me your name, and I guess that’ll have to do, Mister Carefree~”

Matsukawa watched as the other man gave him a smug grin, more than aware that he probably did not have a better-looking stupid smile on the lips.

“Matsukawa. I’m Matsukawa Issei.”

A comfortable silence stretched between the two of them, only broken by Hanamaki’ satisfied hum. A cold breeze blew in their direction, making the decorative bush rustle. Matsukawa saw his new friend’ shiver, and he couldn’t refrain a smile.

“Are you cold?”

“Well, aren’t you?” the other grumbled, hugging himself.

“Mmmh, not really no,” Matsukawa chuckled, “I like the autumnal weather.”

Montebello was not a busy street. Apart from the few by-passers, they were alone, and Matsukawa felt strangely at peace with this new presence in his drifting life.

Hanamaki frowned, shaking his head.

“That may be because you’re an old person. Old people are always too warm.”

Issei frowned, absolutely baffled by the analysis. Wasn’t it the other way around?

He chuckled, sipping on his tea.

“I’m pretty sure we are the same age~”

“Maybe, but you’re drinking tea.”

“What’s wrong with drinking tea?”

“That’s an old person’s drink!” Hanamaki gasped, a bright sound that made Matsukawa forget to answer for a few seconds.

He set the cup down and raised a brow, “Why, is your soul as bitter as the coffee you’re drinking, then?”

Hanamaki fell silent for an instant, before scrunching up his nose in a defeated concession, “Maybe it is?”

It was Matsukawa’s turn to laugh, holding his stomach as he tried to contain himself. He could not help it; this man’s adorable face was going to be the death of him. How long had it been since he had laughed like that? The situation wasn’t even that funny!

He could not see it, but his sudden hilarity had made Hanamaki lose his smile. The pink-haired man had been like starstruck, watching with wide shiny eyes as Issei laughed. An embarrassed smile grew on his lips by the time Matsukawa calmed down, and he remained silent.

Once again, they remained in comfortable quietness for a few moments, before the dark-haired man smiled and rested his chin on his hand.

“So, what’s with your sudden desire to make friends?”

Hanamaki frowned, and Matsukawa noticed the uneasiness in his expression. He shifted in his seat, before sighing dramatically.

“Well… Since we are _finally_ friends,” he grinned, to which Matsukawa simply rolled his eyes, “I guess I can confide in you… Truth is, I just… broke up with my girlfriend… So I’m a bit lonely...”

Matsukawa felt his chest tightening a little as he processed the information, but he did not let his face show anything. Hanamaki having an ex-girlfriend could mean many of his assumptions regarding their “chemistry” were wrong, first of which being the flirtatious behaviour he had thought he could see in the pink-haired man’s actions. Second, of all, the “lonely” bit could simply imply that he was nothing more than a rebound; which at least would be a confirmation that the attraction wasn’t one-sided.

Issei grinned wider, covering his distraught reaction with light-hearted tease.

“Mmmh I see… So you immediately went for the most lonely-looking person you could find to do some trauma-sharing with no personal attach…”

Hanamaki let out a dry chuckle, shooting finger-guns at him, “Bingo ~”

Matsukawa smiled and watched as the other man sighed, a sad smile on the lips as he slouched in his chair.

He shook his head, trying to come up with a solution to make his companion grin brightly again. Funny how he suddenly felt like he couldn’t live without that smile…

“So, that’s your trauma then,” he stated, “What made you think I have one?”

Hanamaki seemed fairly surprised, and Issei loved the way his face lit up with genuine confusion. He could run for President or dress as a drag queen simply to see that adorable expression on his face again…

“Well, you work for a funeral home, that’s the trauma.”

That, Matsukawa wasn’t expecting it. Once again, he was taken aback, and immediately laughed. This time, he caught Hanamaki’s flustered chuckle from the corner of his eyes, and it was enough to make his stomach do somersaults.

“My trauma is that I work for a funeral home?” he repeated in absolute disbelief, wiping some tears away.

“Why of course! What else? You don’t need any traumatic experience, that alone stands as a horrible fate.”

“Says the one who’s unemployed~” Matsukawa grinned, making Makki gasp in outrage.

“I am _in between jobs_.”

“Same difference to me~”

Hanamaki crossed his arms with a childish pout, which had for only effect to make Matsukawa grin wider. Even the cold autumn sun wasn’t as warm as his chest upon watching Hanamaki’ smiles, his grins, his pouts, his confusion…

Matsukawa couldn’t have dreamed of a sweeter encounter on his ocean.

“Still,” the other man sighed, “I don’t see how anyone can work in a funeral home. I mean, I know some people have to, because they need the money and because someone has to do the job. But you said it yourself: you’re my age, and we are young. That’s a sad job, isn’t it?”

Matsukawa gazed up softly. There was a hesitant seriousness in the other man’s eyes, and he understood the question mattered to him. He smiled; having escaped his old life, he had never had to explain his carrier choices to anyone before.

Hanamaki truly was an exception, an exceptional being.

“Well,” he thought, “It isn’t, really. I didn’t think about it much when I took the job offer, but I don’t regret it. I get to work with amazing human beings, and I can help others in many ways...”

“How is that helping though?”

Matsukawa found himself taken aback by the eagerness in the other man’s voice, borderline harsh. He gazed up, watching as Hanamaki’s face twisted in a painful, unconvinced smile. His eyebrows were furrowing in incomprehension.

“You can’t help anyone. They’re already dead, aren’t they?” he chuckled bitterly, “No matter what you do, that won’t help the family nor the friends… It won’t bring them back.”

A draft caressed Hanamaki’s hair; he was so beautiful.

Matsukawa would give anything to convince him, to make him smile again.

“Well, depending on the day, I either take care of the customer service, or I prepare the bodies for upcoming burials or incinerations,” he simply explained, “In any case, I take care of someone. When I’m behind the counter, I answer phone calls from people with wobbly voices, or I welcome red-faced children coming in to search for a coffin or a casket for a parent. I give advice, I give support. I have to be careful, courteous, and I usually keep a notebook with the customers’ names to call them for follow-up counselling-”

“But you mostly work with the dead, with corpses,” Hanamaki cut him, eyes screwed into his with unusual insistence, “Right? When you’re not on customer duty, you get to stand with those cold bodies, to touch them… paint them into fake sleeping people. That’s not helping, is it?”

There was a sharp edge to his voice that Matsukawa couldn’t quite place. A certain stress.

The dark-haired man drifted along the new tone of the conversation with an easy smile.

He was used to anger. The grieving, furious voice of pained souls, lost in sorrow and seeking a reason behind a pain that had no physical manifestation.

There was nothing wrong with expressing overwhelming anger, as long as you remained respectful; Matsukawa had seen much ruder outbursts of sorrow than Makki’s.

“I still help the living by honouring their dead, don’t I?” he breathed out, calm brown eyes scanning him with all the affection he had built up over the last few minutes, “I give a pleasant appearance to those who are outlived by their loved ones; I add beauty to a painful truth-”

“There is _no_ beauty in death.”

Matsukawa watched him softly, taking in his responses, his reactions. He found professional ease in the conversation, and kept a level head despite the sudden tension.

“Why not?” he smiled, “Would it be better for us to see death as inherently ugly? Or should we strive to hope for the best for the ones we lost?”

He saw Hanamaki swallowing dryly and gazing away.

He had lost him. Matsukawa could feel he had not chosen the right words. Or maybe, Hanamaki couldn’t understand them the way he did…

The pink-haired man bit on his lower lip, shutting his eyes as he stood up at once, his mug half empty remaining on the table as he pushed the chair back.

Matsukawa watched, as confused as one could be, a certain pain stinging his heart when the other man’s face lost all joy to a cold facade.

“Hanamaki-”

“I gotta go. I have a job interview in ten minutes.”

And on those words, he drifted away.

******

A week went by after that encounter, and it should have been like any other. It should have been but floating wood on a powerful stream, with no more impact on the ocean than caressing the waves.

Currents should not be impacted by anything.

Yet Matsukawa never stopped thinking about Hanamaki. His warm playful eyes watched him from a corner of his mind, and this soft hair he could not quite describe coloured his days and nights.

Like seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses.

On that day, Matsukawa had prepared the body of a young child.

He should have expected the sight, should have let the parents’ tears slide off his back like water off a leaf. But he didn’t.

He kept a calm smile and a sensible head through the appointment and the preparations, but the mother’ sobs were still ringing in his head hours after the procedure. That small body, so fragile and broken, wouldn’t leave his consciousness alone.

At 11pm, Matsukawa still couldn’t get a sense of rest, and so he sought out warmth. His steps brought him off his couch and to the cafe, which he found rightfully closed.

He squeezed his hands tight in his pockets, buried into a large coat which couldn’t offer him the heat he needed.

Unable to find the familiar warmth of tea, he looked for a way to burn himself alive.

The nearest bar would do; there was no more scorching heat than alcohol.

Pushing the door open, the suffocating atmosphere of fake reliefs caught his throat; soon, he’d be one of those dancing, laughing figures that for now he watched like freaks. Can’t judge until you’ve tried.

Matsukawa slouched onto a chair near the bar, next to yet another living corpse, hidden by a large blue hoodie.

“A shot please,” he called the busy bar tender, raising his voice to be heard over the booming music. The faster he got drunk, the faster he’d be home, asleep.

As the other man hurried around to meet all the orders, Matsukawa felt the sluggish shape shift next to him, and he did his best to ignore it. He wasn’t here to “share his trauma” with yet another beautiful stranger he would never meet again.

“W-well fuck me, didn’t think you’d trade tea for… booze!”

Sweet, sweet irony, and sweet, sweet smile, as he turned around to meet Hanamaki’s messy hair, bloated face and cheeky grin. His breath caught in his throat, and he watched in silent awe as the drunkard dragged his chair closer, half slouched on the counter during the process.

“What brings- brings you here, Grim Reaper?”

A strong whisk of alcohol assaulted Matsukawa’s nostrils as the other man hiccuped and laughed at his own inability to talk.

“Ah- M’sorry though… Can’t promise I’ll remember what you… what you said...”

Matsukawa was startled out of his confusion by the other’s hand plopping on his shoulder. He cleared his throat, a sweet smile growing on his lips.

Oh how could he be that pretty despite the mess that he was?

“Well… I guess I’m just enjoying a night of youth,” he chuckled, watching as Hanamaki grinned.

“Oh yes! That’s… That’s good! Very good, Matsu… Matsuwa...”

“Kawa.”

“Ah, s-sorry, Kawa ~” he giggled, squeezing his shoulder.

Issei smiled despite himself, unable to bring himself to tell him that his name wasn’t, in fact, Kawa. He rested his elbow on the counter and his chin on his hand, deciding that watching the other man was more amusing than trying to speak to him. And he was a sight to witness, so Matsukawa would not say no to admiring him a little…

Hanamaki giggled and rambled on about endless nonsense, from Grim Reaper stories to funny anecdotes about tea. It was to wonder how he had acquired such knowledge, or from where he found such imagination. Matsukawa didn’t get tired of it, and when he was given his shot, he downed it in a single gulp to be able to give his full attention back to Hanamaki.

A few minutes went by before the drunk man fell a bit quieter, soft giggles escaping his lips here and then. He had been forbidden from ordering any more drinks a while ago, but the bar tender had probably taken him in pity, and had kept him inside the safe warmth of the bar.

At this point, Matsukawa was resting his head on the counter, dizzy but happy to listen to the other man. Hanamaki giggled and matched his position, so that they were both a few inches away, heads on the wood.

Matsukawa’s heart would have exploded had he not been drunk already.

“Say, Kawa,” Hanamaki finally grinned, playful eyes shining softly, “I’m sorry about the… other day… You know… That’s...”

He shut his eyes, groaning as he seemed to regret being so wasted, “That was… so rude of me… I was stupid...”

Matsukawa smiled and shook his head, “No hard feelings.”

His answer earned him a breathy giggle from the other man, and the lightly inebriated funeral worker smiled wider.

Hanamaki’ shoulders stopped shaking after a few seconds, and he let out a soft sigh.

“Say, I think I understood your… uh… your point,” he started, “I get that you can feel like you’re helping, and being kind and... uh…like… kind.”

Matsukawa giggled as he heard the repetition, amazed by how intoxicated his friend was. Makki let out a soft whine, raising a hand to drop it on the other man’ shoulder.

“Don’t… don’t laugh! I’m pouring my heart out here… man...”

“I’m sorry, continue...” he grinned, calming his breath down after a few chuckles.

Hanamaki scrunched up his nose, and Matsukawa understood that his final hour had finally come. Sweet death that this man was to him...

“So, as I was saying… I get the whole… _not-sad job_ thing… But how do… how do you survive the sight… the sight of it all?”

The question took Issei by surprise, and he gazed up with a confused expression. His mind lost itself in answers, all as incoherent as could be.

Used to it? He wasn’t used to it. He wouldn’t be here if he was…

He thought for a few more seconds, before smiling. Of course he had a method! Why didn’t he think of it before?

“I sing~” he cooed, grinning proudly.

Hanamaki’s blown pupils widened, and he let out a chuckle.

“You sing?”

“Yeah~”

“How?”

“Well,” Matsukawa thought for a few seconds again, “I’ve always liked singing… And songs come to me easily… I don’t mean that I write my own songs. But I… there’s like little jukeboxes, in my head, and whenever I get sad or… whenever things get hard… I think of a song. A song that fits either the situation… or the person I’m preparing… And I sing it to myself.”

Hanamaki blinked, face contorting in adorable expressions of confusion. He let his mouth gape once or twice, as if to speak, before letting out a wheezy laugh.

“That’s… that’s so weird!”

His voice wasn’t in any way mocking or of ill-intent; he was just speaking his drunk thoughts, and relishing in the amusement he felt. It made Matsukawa smile, and soon he was joining him into a messy fit of laughter, both of them almost tearing up against the counter.

It felt peaceful, like a stream meeting the sea. As all things should be.

Soon enough, they were calm again, in that nervous fashion that characterized people on the verge of laughing. The bar was nearing its closing time, and already people were leaving and the music had been tuned down.

Matsukawa got back to his senses faster, and he watched in absolute adoration as the other man settled his breath, eyes shining softly.

“Shall I walk you home?” he finally breathed out, standing up on lightly wobbly feet.

“Aw maaan, I live so faaaar...” Makki whined, sprawling himself on the counter.

“I live far too. You’ll be of some company for the walk, cause we are not driving home,” he warned, stretching his groggy muscles.

“Whaaa’? We aren’t? Why?”

In any other situation, Matsukawa would have completely melted in front of the puppy eyes. But this was a case of public and personal safety, and he would be intransigent. Slowly, he pushed the other man to his feet, wrapping his soft arm around his neck while supporting him by the waist.

Issei’s heart sped up as he realized he was pretty much holding him, and he cleared his throat.

“Because I’m tipsy and you’re wasted. So we’re walking.”

Hanamaki whined. A lot.

Even when the unforgiving coldness of autumn nights slapped them across the face, he kept on complaining.

Matsukawa lived an hour away from the tea shop by foot, and Hanamaki roughly thirty-five minutes.

The walk home finally became peaceful after twenty of those, and Matsukawa immediately realized that Hanamaki’s whiny soliloquy had been a terribly sweet and comfortable presence.

The streets were empty and silent, by now, and the quiet walk felt all the more surreal. Matsukawa risked a glance towards the slouched shape against his shoulder, a smile growing on his lips as he pressed him close. Even silent, Hanamaki remained an endearing sight to witness. Enough to forget the day’ suffering…

The amber glare of street lights cast a peachy glow onto the indescribable hair. Matsukawa would lie if he said he did not spend the rest of the walk keeping himself from nuzzling against it…

Soon enough, they had reached the address Makki had mumbled in between two complaints, and Issei carefully pressed him to the building’s door for stability. Takahiro groaned, dizzy and exhausted, and he messily fiddled with his keys.

At last he opened the door, resting against the frame as he gazed back to Matsukawa.

“Well… Thanks for… accompanying me...” he slurred, eyes pretty much closing on their own.

Matsukawa smiled, refreshed enough by the cold air to stand up straight and awake. He blew a little volute of mist as he chuckled, hands buried in his pockets.

“No problem,” he smiled, before continuing, “I was wondering if you’d like… to go an another walk with me, tomorrow morning? I’m on a day off, and I know a spot in the countryside, an hour drive from here.”

Hanamaki blinked softly, raising his head as he opened his eyes with great difficulty.

“Day off, uh?” he grumbled, before yawning softly, “So much for the busy employed man…”

He seemed to think for a few seconds, scratching his chin, “Let me see… Tomorrow… ah I’m free… oh and the day after too… Aaaaaah right, I’m in between jobs!”

Matsukawa’s heart fluttered a little, and he giggled “Then it’s settled. I’ll fetch you by 9am.”

“Ugh… nine? Couldn’t you make it like… 2pm or something?”

Issei laughed brightly, and Makki immediately mimicked him with an instinctive chuckle.

“You look like you’ll need some fresh air, and there’s nothing like the morning for a quiet walk.”

Hanamaki nodded in a soft hum and fell silent, averting his eyes. They did not speak, did not move. Time had come to a peaceful standstill, the air filled with an airy melody that seemed to ease the silence into peacefulness.

At last, Hanamaki straightened up, and sighed, “I’ll let you walk home then. See you, Kawa~ Thanks for tonight!”

“Goodnight to you too, Makki...”

Takahiro shut the door behind him, and Matsukawa remained still for a few seconds. He let the breeze sing around him, eyes lost onto the doorframe against which the other man had been resting a few moments ago. In the hazy clarity of his tipsy thoughts, he had finally found a way to describe the particular colour of the pretty stranger’s hair.

Matsukawa smiled softly as he turned away, walking along the moon-draped pavement.

_Look at you, strawberry blond_

_*****_

Early autumn’s morning sun was yet again casting a golden halo on the road and its surrounding trees as Matsukawa drove. A yawn escaped his lips, and he blinked to chase away some tears and focus on the concrete path.

He’d woken up extra early to fetch the car, still parked near the cafe, and he was sort of debating whether what he regretted most was the shot or the ungodly bedtime hour. A combination of both seemed to be the most plausible answer…

“Oi, you’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?”

Hanamaki’s rough voice drew a lazy smile on the driver’s lips, and he took a glance aside to enjoy the view of the pale, slouched figure next to him. It’s a well-known fact that seeing someone in a worse condition than yourself can make you feel better… And there was no one in worse condition than Makki.

The poor idiot probably regretted everything about his consumption choices of the previous night, and he was currently leaning against the open window, curled into a ball on the seat. The cold air slapped him continuously, but Matsukawa had insisted that a bit of wind would be better than the confined warmth of the car.

“Says the one who woke up ten minutes _after_ our set time~” the dark-haired man answered, focusing on the road with a grin.

He received a light punch on the shoulder, pretty much the only movement Makki could perform at the time.

“Shut up, at least I apologized from the window.”

True that, and to make it better, wearing nothing but shorts. Matsukawa did not point it out, but the sight had been enough of an apology.

“You almost vomited on me from the first floor though...”

“I did _not_.”

Matsukawa grinned wider. There was nothing more peaceful than a quarrel when shared with the right person. His satisfaction did not seem to please Hanamaki, and the young man squinted his eyes at him from the window. He opened his mouth to speak, and Issei caught him closing it again from the corner of his eyes.

He let the silence stretch for a few seconds before chuckling.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Hanamaki?”

The strawberry-haired man grumbled, and had he not been already red with exhaustion and lingering alcohol, Matsukawa was almost sure his friend would have been blushing.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, “I...”

He hesitated for another second, before sighing in defeat, slouching even more if physically possible, “Your name isn’t Kawa, is it?”

Matsukawa blinked, his eyes widening as he let out another clear laugh. Hanamaki groaned, burying his face in his hands in embarrassment.

“Aaaaah here you are, mocking me! Stop the car, I wanna get out… I gotta get out of here!”

There was a giggly tremor to his voice, which allowed Matsukawa to think it right not to obey. He calmed himself after a few deep breaths, and managed to spare him an amused gaze.

“Come on, don’t be mad~”

“I’m not mad! I’m _ashamed_! I want you to dig me a grave, could you do that?”

Matsukawa wheezed again. Hanamaki was on the right path to actually becoming the death of him: distraction while driving, even on an empty country road, was on the list of accidents he was given in the morning before his preparation shifts.

“Oh dear~ Okay, Okay...” he managed to control his breath again, missing the pleased smile on Hanamaki’s lips, “I won’t dig you grave, no...”

“Then a coffin! Will you find me a pretty coffin? I want it as bitter as my coffee-soul.”

And there went Matsukawa’ self control.

He pulled over on the grass near the road, parking there for sheer security purpose. The poor man hid himself in the stirring wheel, shoulders shaken with giggles.

He knew Hanamaki was watching him, making his face heat up even more.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… The spot is… five minutes away by foot. Let’s… Let’s walk, or else we’ll need two caskets.”

Hanamaki grinned, opening his door and dragging himself out, apparently reinvigorated by his humoristic skills, “Well, good luck finding a carefree tea-coffin.”

Ah well done, Hanamaki….

Now Matsukawa looked like the drunk one.

And had he paid better attention, he’d have noticed how flustered Makki had turned upon hearing him laugh again…

It took Issei a minute to ground himself, and another to be stable enough to get out. Hanamaki was waiting, visibly cold given how much he was shrinking onto himself in his large brown coat, rubbing his gloved hands together and exhaling volutes of mist with each breath.

“Took you long enough, Not-Kawa,” he grinned, before letting his eyes wander around.

They were parked on the left side of a long road, barely even covered in concrete as they had crossed the threshold between city and country. Behind them ran a high hedge, hiding the scenery and keeping them in the shade.

Matsukawa instinctively buried his hands in his pockets, chuckling as he walked towards him.

“Whose fault was that?”

“Not mine, Not-Kawa-san, that’s for sure.”

“Mmh, and are you going to call me Not-Kawa for a while?” he asked, walking alongside him towards the end of the hedge.

“I don’t know, are you going to tell me your name?”

“I already did~ Aren’t friends supposed to remember each other’s names?”

Hanamaki blushed and buried his nose into his scarf in embarrassment.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, “My head hurts too much to argue with you...”

“Mmh, and whose fault is that?” Matsukawa immediately argued, tilting his head to the side as he nudged his shoulder.

Hanamaki did not answer, and Issei did not think much of it.

They walked in silence towards the edge, and when they reached it, Matsukawa immediately turned to look at his friend: the cold sun cast an orangish light on an abandoned field, sprinkled with wild flowers and shrubs. A lonely oak tree, large and high, overhung a light downhill steepness.

The light and colours painted Hanamaki’s pale features with a golden glimmer, adding a certain spark to his eyes and a soft dawn-like shade to his hair.

The sights blew their breaths away.

With a peaceful smile, Matsukawa walked down to the tree’s cover, hands still buried in his coat. Hanamaki soon followed, shaken out of his awe by his movement.

Issei gave him a furtive glance, heart melting upon seeing his gaze captured by the misty, sifted sun.

“Matsukawa Issei.”

He startled Hanamaki, who watched him confusedly for a few seconds, “I’m Matsukawa Issei, and I won’t repeat it again.”

Takahiro blinked, before chuckling.

“Roger that, old man...”

He grinned and let himself fall back into the overgrown grass, laying there happily. Matsukawa frowned softly, shaking his head.

“Isn’t it wet with morning dew?”

“It is. But fact number one: the world is spinning too fast for me to stand a second longer. And fact number two: investing in gloves and a scarf is actually useful when winter gets this cold.”

Matsukawa grinned, taking a look at himself, missing the two items he mentioned and putting all of his warmth needs in the hands of a light coat.

He raised a brow, shaking his head.

“Well, it isn’t winter. Barely even autumn. I have time.”

Hanamaki hummed, taking a few seconds to answer. Maybe a few seconds too long.

“You sure do.”

The silence stretched again, as comfortable as it had always been. How peculiar for two strangers to be at such ease with one another, Matsukawa thought.

He let the minutes pass by, drifting past them. Time was something no one could stop, nor speed up. The pace of all of things had to be the right one, in both words and silences.

“I wouldn’t be able to work with sad people all the time,” Hanamaki suddenly breathed out.

Matsukawa tore his eyes from the hazy sun, letting them fall onto the other man; he was gazing up to the golden sky, watching a scene Issei couldn’t see.

“I can barely handle myself when I am sad,” he added after a few seconds, voice dying in a whisper.

Matsukawa watched him calmly, trying to catch his eye but to no avail. He settled on a simple smile, “It’s more than enough.”

Hanamaki did not answer at first. For another long minute maybe, Matsukawa feared he had said something wrong, or something too meaningless for the other man to build on it.

But at last, Makki’s eyes met his, a single movement in an immobile time.

“Have you thought of a song for me?”

_I love everybody  
Because I love you_

Matsukawa’s pupils widened softly, and a cold draft caressed their hair.

His silence mislead Hanamaki into thinking he had not understood the question, so he averted his eyes again, a nervous breath escaping his lips.

“You said… that songs come to you easily when you see people. I was wondering if you had thought of a song… about me?”

Matsukawa’s heart ached gently, endearment spreading through his chest like wildfire – a sweet incandescent spark of joy.

He offered him a smile, watching the motion of his sun-lit hair, burning like flames in his gaze.

“I might have an idea”.

Hanamaki raised his head, and Matsukawa saw with great joy that the cheeky glimmer had made its way back into his eyes.

“Oooh what is it then?”

“I can’t tell you~”

“What? Of course you can!”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I asked!” the other gasped, sitting up on the crushed grass mattress. It felt so evident in his mind he did not realize how petulant the request sounded, and it took him a split second to blush in embarrassment, crossing his arms over his chest.

Matsukawa chuckled, squeezing his fists in his pockets to fight the cold. He took another glance at the distant autumn sun, before grinning.

“Well then, is your word that of a king?” he asked, raising a playful brow.

His eyes fell onto him, and for a second he thought the other man would just groan and ignore him. But Hanamaki’s eyes met his, and like magnets they locked onto each other.

The pink-haired man might as well be a thief: he stole Matsukawa’s heart and breath in a single batting of his eyelids, stole his smile and wit with the next.

Caught in a net, in the middle of the ocean.

“Do I need to be a king for you to sing the song?” he breathed out, hugging his knees.

Another draft ran over their skin, a cold touch that soothed the boiling eagerness of too many words. It froze Matsukawa’s hasty answer on the tip of his lips; a simple “No” would not be enough.

He’d sing for the poorest scum of the Earth if they shared Hanamaki’ soul.

He’d sing for him – and only him, if this was what he wished.

He took another breath, another heartbeat.

“Or do I need to be dead?”

Hanamaki spoke the words with a casual smile.

Cheekiness again. A joke.

He could afford to joke: he had stolen Matsukawa’s heart, lungs, smiles and brains, and now he was toying around with them.

Oh how easily they could all shatter to pieces…

Matsukawa watched him, voiceless man in front of his voice’s thief. He let his eyes drift over the other, knowing a stretched stillness could freeze the entire world if left unchecked. Knowing letting a robber get away with his crime would make him believe he was unattainable, unreachable.

So he spoke again.

“I sing to the dead because it is my last day with them, and their last day with me.”

Hanamaki’s eyes fell to the ground. He nodded with a hum.

“Fair enough.”

Matsukawa watched as he leaned back into the grass, spreading his arms wide as if he wanted to draw a snow angel. No one spoke for another few seconds, another draft, before Hanamaki continued.

“But it is also your first day with them.”

Matsukawa’s eyes fell onto his soft features, unable to catch his gaze.

“My first day…?”

“Yes,” Makki glanced back to him, threatening to steal everything from him again, “You told me your job was not sad. That you were being helpful and humane to both the dead and the living. So you can’t only sing for the end of it all. You must also be singing for… for something greater, right?”

A weak smile grew on his lips, “There must be something greater than this, right, on the other side?”

Matsukawa watched him, took in the sight of his smile and hope, and he felt a twitch to his heart that made his chest tighten.

Singing for the dead. A requiem for the lost souls, for the last days.

Or a celebration of the first day into death, maybe? A last touch of blush and a last apparel to enter the realm of eternity.

He smiled.

“I sing for myself. To keep on living.”

Living beyond the sight of it all, as Hanamaki had put it.

Beyond the cold skin of a pale toddler against the warm caress of his hands, the warm draft of his breath.

Letting it all drift along his heart without invading it, like water and oil.

Hanamaki watched him, and Matsukawa offered him a smile.

He did not know that the autumnal sun cast a warm shade onto his features too, painting his beauty into Hanamaki’s mind like it ignited his hair in Issei’s.

And Makki let his slow nod speak for him.

They stood there without a word breaking the surface of their minds for what seemed like hours. Enough to speak a hundred silences and voice a handful of sweetly hesitant smiles. Their lashes fluttered like butterflies as they lost their gazes over the horizon, the flowers, and a few bumblebees – a courteous dance that paced the intensity of their own desire to melt into each other’s eyes.

Minutes went by like years, enough to put a lifetime onto the paper of their souls. Enough to blow the pupils with passion and the lungs with breathlessness.

Yet, decades in the eyes of love were seconds to sensibility, and another draft was all that touched their skins.

Matsukawa saw Hanamaki shivering from the corner of his eyes, and he allowed a smile to creep up his lips.

“Let’s go back to the car.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Makki breathed out in a white volute, eyes shimmering with the exhaustion of untold emotions, “You’ve driven an hour to get us here, and it’s barely been thirty minutes.”

Stay? He would freeze to death by Hanamaki’ side if this was what it took for them to spend more time together. He would sing a hundred swan songs for them to be one for a second longer.

But there was no rushing time, and no taming the stream; let them drift over the ocean until they reached the island of new beginnings.

Matsukawa had time. And singing would be for later.

“It’s a bit cold now, even for me,” he chuckled, squeezing his arms against his sides to illustrate his point, “And you’re shivering. We can come back another time.”

Matsukawa learned two things after that sentence: the first was that the bleak sun’s golden light was no match for the shimmer that ignited Hanamaki’s eyes at that moment. And the second, that he would sing a thousand beginnings for that light never to falter.

“Alright,” Hanamaki chuckled, standing up on the trampled meadow, “That’s a promise then.”

Matsukawa nodded, “It is.”

He did not move at first, as the strawberry-haired man made his way up the hill. His eyes were lost onto the nest he had made for himself in the grass, watching without seeing, carving in his mind the picture of him in this seat for the sight never to wash away.

“Hey, Matsukawa?”

He gazed up. Hanamaki was so far away already, and yet he could admire all the details of his being, from his wind-brushed hair to his hesitant smile.

He could speak a thousand words, and Matsukawa would listen. He could silence a hundred more, and he would watch.

“Will you teach me how to sing, someday?”

_  
When you stood up  
Walked away, barefoot  
And the grass where you lay  
Left a bed in your shape  
I looked over it  
And I ached_

“Of course.”

*****

Days passed, grey and golden. As if fall hesitated to settle, and summer wished to linger; so they danced, shared days and hours, merging their talents in a last ballet of undetermined length.

Matsukawa did not pay much attention to the twirling days, as he had never paid much mind to the processes behind the currents of his life. Let them dance, for he was but a mere leaf in their whirlwind.

And yet, days passed. Not seconds, nor years, nor moments. The cycle of setting sun and raising light that paced his life had taken temporal shape; he witnessed the gliding time not like a surrounding context but rather like an active part of his conscious experience.

Time was passing, and for the first occasion in forever, it mattered to him.

A sweet summery song twirled in his head like an innocent obsession, and he could hum it for hours. Hours that felt like seconds, seconds in the stream of his forever.

Only the days themselves were of certain consequence; there were natural seconds of his life, and there was the awareness of another cycle spent without seeing Hanamaki.

They had not exchanged phone numbers, nor had they talked about a future meeting. Matsukawa had no way of contacting him, and pulling up to his apartment uninvited was no option.

Should he meet him again, he would.

So far, his day had been fairly tranquil, with no new customers and no scheduled preparations. Tuesdays were slow, had always been. They were lonely shifts, and he did not mind them. A book was enough to give him the company that his co-workers would offer him on regular week days, and a tea on Montebello Street would provide him with enough warmth to sleep on his own.

He had been humming again, mind drifting off as he read the pages of the newspapers without paying much attention to the news. The distraction was in organizing the letters together, calling them words, and flying over their meanings; the impact and repercussions flowed past him like a floating branch.

There, behind the counter, slouched on his chair and surrounded with crowns of lilies and snapdragons, eternal beds of wood and name-tags of granite and marble, he couldn’t see the outside world, and the outside world couldn’t see him.

All he could hear through the heady melody was the ringing bells of the front door, chirping like birds in contrast with the heavy tolling crows of funeral services. They were almost too light for the atmosphere of the shop, and Matsukawa sat up with an equally light smile.

You leave the painful burden for the customers’ hearts and the cemetery’s alleys; your job is to smile and drift along to cater for the broken souls’ needs and fears. Selflessness. A fitting job for someone without ties.

“Welcome to Shizuka Funeral Home, how may I help-”

A melody had drifted his way, with no phone call or predestined bonds.

Hanamaki stood there, buried in his large coat, his purple scarf and gloves. Frozen, as always, frozen in coldness, in confusion, in shock.

They did not move, nor speak, and Matsukawa felt time stopping. No flow, at last, no flow but that of his melody.

“Ah… f’course it had to be yours...”

“Hanamaki,” Isseibreathed out, a hesitant smile on his lips fading as he saw the other man’s gaze melting into frustration and sorrow, “Hanamaki what-”

“Sorry, wrong shop…” Takahiro shrugged, turning the other way and ready to walk out.

Matsukawa dashed forward as he heard the light tremor his friend had failed to conceal. He caught his wrist, keeping his body at a safe distance from Hanamaki; he wouldn’t want to scare him. He wouldn’t want the current to take him away.

He watched as the other man shivered, facing the street. Matsukawa could only see his beautiful hair, his thin neck; it took everything within him not to get closer, wrap his arms around him and bury himself in that sickly sweet trap of his.

“Hanamaki… Is… Are you okay-”

“Yes.” Surely Hanamaki did not intend for his voice to come off so harshly. At least, that was what Matsukawa told himself to endure the shock. He swallowed dryly, trying to offer him a smile; but as long as he wouldn’t look his way, his attempts would be pointless.

“Hanamaki, look at me...” he almost begged, his voice so low and soft, wrapped in velvet for the sole purpose of caressing his companion’s heart.

For a second, Hanamaki fell still. The shivering wrist froze, and time with it. He must have been a god, Matsukawa thought, to bend moments to his will with a breath.

At last, the other man turned around, and Issei let go of his hand. In a halo of greyish sun, Hanamaki was watching him, his face twisted in lines of tension – reddened eyes filled with untold sorrow.

There was a secret on the tip of his lips, and he bit down onto them not to spill it over and vomit the painful truth.

Matsukawa had seen that expression in countless gazes. You walk in as if you did not belong there. As if the people working there were nosy strangers. Every question surprises you, because you do not expect those distant intruders to talk to you.

You walk in with a living being in your heart, and as soon as the personnel speaks to you, that person dies. So it’s better to see that undertaker as a mere rock on your path. It’s better not to look at them, not to smile at them.

And if you already did, run.

“Hanamaki...” Matsukawa breathed out again, keeping his legs from bringing him any closer, and his hands from reaching for his face. Fighting against the stream not to drown the other.

“Is my name all you can repeat?” the other man snapped in a bitter, strangled voice. He averted his eyes as he spoke, a glimmer betraying how upset the situation was making him.

A shiver shook Matsukawa down to his core, and lost itself in the immensity of his affection. If he could, he’d only speak his name.

In any other situation, he would have smiled and answered. Maybe he’d have been bold enough to close the distance between them, the two oceans that his god had parted, just to be one at last.

Maybe he’d have stolen his lips, in retaliation for the theft of his own heart. With a little luck he’d have been able to take a little bit of sorrow off his mouth too…

But this wasn’t any situation, and the shield of his devotion protected him from the harsh bite of his shivering sweetheart, whose condition couldn’t be solved by all the coats and hugs in the world. Matsukawa managed to shake his head, keeping a soft smile on his face not to burden him with his own concern.

“It isn’t,” he breathed out, “Forgive me, Makki. I simply don’t know where to begin with you.”

“I guess so,” the other conceded, keeping his eyes on the ground in soft nervousness, “I suppose I’m not your regular customer...”

Matsukawa couldn’t hold back a weak smile. How easy would it have been had Hanamaki not known him… They’d be strangers proceeding to a painfully necessary transaction, never to see each other again, never to speak much. Hanamaki would have just had to refuse the follow-up counselling, and it would have been the end of it.

Except after seeing each other’s brightest smiles, the ugly truth of tears seemed unbearable to expose. Matsukawa would have given the world for Hanamaki to realize his tears would not scare him away.

“No, you are not,” he breathed out, “But if...” he searched for the right words not to frighten him, “If this is the type of shop you are looking for, I’m willing to be a regular funeral home worker… Just for now.”

Just for you.

Hanamaki raised his chin, nostrils flaring in a hardly contained exhale, biting on his lower lip.

“Alright,” he whispered, casting his eyes on the ground, “Alright...”

Matsukawa nodded, and after giving him a few seconds to speak if he wished to, he took a step back.

“We have a private office in the back. We can talk there...”

Hanamaki nodded again, and Issei guided him towards the small minimalist room. He sat on one side of the table, and Takahiro slouched on the other.

He had half expected him to gaze up with a cheeky grin, coffee in hand, and introduce himself all over again.

But the sky was simply greyer today.

“So… how may I help you?” Matsukawa asked, his voice just as careful, just as soft, as he prepared himself to take notes.

Hanamaki gazed up, and the other man fought back a smile, unable to look away. Takahiro managed to cock an amused eye-brow.

“Do you look at all your customers with those puppy eyes, Mister Regular-Funeral-Home-Worker?” he enquired in a gruff voice.

Matsukawa immediately tore his eyes away from him. In keeping his lips in check, he had forgotten about his own gaze.

“Maybe I do?” he answered carefully. His eyes met his again, “Or maybe I never was a regular employee in the first place?”

He saw Hanamaki tensing up, but in a softer way than that of the doe on the flight response. He averted his gaze, and this time, Matsukawa kept watching.

“That I knew,” Takahiro answered in a breath, “You’re probably the only one who sings...”

Maybe.

Matsukawa did not answer. He had let Hanamaki drift away, avoid the subject, but by straying any further they would lose each other.

So he waited, waited in a silence that had always been and would always be comfortable to them.

In any other situation, Matsukawa would have spoken. He would have asked the dreaded question, broken the painful quietness of one who refuses to voice the truth.

But as of now, it would not help if he spoke.

Hanamaki was safe in a silence that belonged to them. It had always been theirs, and words would drift their way whenever they would need them.

“Aren’t you supposed to speak?”

Matsukawa smiled, “Do you want me to?”

Hanamaki gazed aside, losing his eyes on a crack in the wall, “I don’t know. You’re the one who has experience, aren’t you?”

He gulped, glancing over to him, “How do regular customers go about it?”

Matsukawa thought for a few seconds, wringing his hands together as he searched for the right answer. Hanamaki waited, as he knew he would.

“They state who they are here for...” he started, “And I write it down. Then-”

“Isn’t it a bit… bland?”

Matsukawa blinked softly, offering him a soft, confused smile, “You asked for the regular procedure-”

“Forget it. I don’t want it to be regular,” he swallowed, pressing his hand to his forehead as if the words had given him a fever, “I… I just don’t...”

Matsukawa watched him, and allowed his natural kindness to reappear.

“What’s their name, then?”

A non-regular funeral home worker, with soft eyes and unchecked smiles.

He saw Hanamaki tensing down like a feather fluttering to the ground.

“Asa Haruka”

“What is she like?”

Hanamaki’s breath caught in his throat, and the sight made Matsukawa’s chest tighten.

“She… is a wonderful human being… I would have spent my life with her…”

_I love everybody_

_Because I love you_

“Tell me then.”

Hanamaki gazed up, confusion swirling in his eyes. Matsukawa’s fond expression was enough to soothe his aching heart.

He spoke of her, of that woman he had loved for three years, with whom he had every plan and for whom he’d have done everything. He was here on behalf of broken parents, who had waited for weeks before accepting that she deserved a place to rest that was more beautiful than a cold chamber.

He was here with a shattered heart, which did not belong to Matsukawa, and would probably never do.

And it was okay. He just had to drift along.

What had been stolen from him, he did not need.

Otherwise, fate would have made their union possible, wouldn’t it?

Hanamaki spoke and spoke again. He did not cry, and Matsukawa asked many careful questions, enough to take notes, enough for Takahiro to unleash his heart’s torments without having to worry about the denial behind them.

Matsukawa was willing to let him live his lie a little bit longer.

It was selfish of him; it wouldn’t help anyone.

But he’d rather smile and pretend the work had been done rather than putting his already wounded chest through the ordeal of seeing his thief’s tears.

As Hanamaki fell silent, Matsukawa’s eyes lit up again, faking peace of mind for the sake of not disrupting the flow of everything else.

“She sounds like quite the woman,” he finally whispered.

Hanamaki watched him.

“She was.”

Matsukawa’s breath caught in his chest, and he nodded, averting his eyes.

He stood up, and Hanamaki did the same. He walked out first, and Matsukawa followed.

He would not force a thing, would not lead the way out. He would drift along, as always.

“Thank you, Matsukawa.”

“You’re welcome.”

Drifting was easier, it hurt less. It was a peaceful state, to simply follow the natural rhythm of a stream. You could not get it wrong, or make any mistake.

What had to be would be.

What had not be wouldn’t.

“Say...”

Matsukawa gazed up.

He watched him, watched his reddened eyes and pained smile. Watched the broken man that stood before him, as hesitant as he was, as unconsolable as he would ever be.

“I suppose this is the wrong time to ask for… your phone number but…”

He smiled weakly, and Matsukawa saw a single tear running down his cheek. Was he pretty, in the halo of the greyish sun…

“I’ll be at the cafe in… Maybe not tomorrow but… the day after… Or maybe...”

Matsukawa shivered, and smiled again.

“I’ll be there.”

Hanamaki’s eyes widened, before dimming down softly.

“Will you?”

Always.

“Of course.”

Matsukawa did not need a phone number, or a set date. He had never needed any type of insurance in his life. If Hanamaki was going to be there, he would be too.

He watched as the other man swallowed, clenching his fists.

“Matsukawa,” he croaked, “I don’t… You don’t have to… You know...”

He gulped, “I might not… I might never be...”

“It’s okay.”

Hanamaki gazed up, and his eyes widened softly as he saw Matsukawa’s calm, peaceful smile.

“I’ll be there.”

Everyday. All week. Every chance he gets.

They’ll meet again, if the current wants it.

When you drift down the stream, you have to catch the hand that reaches for you.

Hanamaki smiled, at last, and nodded.

“Alright.”

Matsukawa watched as he walked away. _  
  
__I don't need the city, and I  
Don't need proof_ _  
__All I need, darling_ _  
__Is a life in your shape_ _  
__I picture it, soft_ _  
__And I ache_

*****

True to his words, Matsukawa waited for Hanamaki everyday, going to the cafe from the end of his shift to the bells of midnight. Grey skies and cold suns waltzed all week long, and he enjoyed watching them follow the rhythm of his melody.

The song would simply not leave his mind, and when he closed his eyes he could picture himself dancing to it. It was an easy flow, like the sweet journey of a river down a flowery valley. It followed him to work, to bed, in the streets, at the cafe…

It lingered, like a distant memory, a familiar scent…

Days passed, Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. Matsukawa waited, with a cup of tea and a melody in his mind. A lullaby for the sleepy pace of his days, and a requiem for his unrequited affection.

A thought stood in his mind, crystal clear like the water in which he bathed: you don’t woo a mourning man, and in Matsukawa’s case, you don’t woo at all.

You let everything flow past you, and only hold on to what comes your way.

Nonchalance had brought him to think he could have Hanamaki to himself, to think he could govern the stream. That Makki would slide down in the current with him, press his bare body against his, dance under the muses’ song.

He had forgotten his life’s philosophy under the curious brown gaze, lost his senses to the gentle furrow of his coral hair.

He had found such peace and stability in learning to simply follow the ineffable stream of a formidable current, and such unrest in the palpitations of a newborn fondness. A desire to swim back, reach the shore, sink his hands into the cushy sand, ground himself.

Feel everything.

Everyday, Matsukawa appreciated the divagation of his own mind, its dance and tune. He stirred his tea, brought it to his lips, watched the street.

Everyday, he waited for Hanamaki to near the water, and it was on the following Thursday evening that his muse came back.

Matsukawa saw him, draped in sorrow, his gloves and scarf like two streaks of indigo paint on a drab figure. His thief averted his eyes as he sat opposite him, buried in his fabric, gaze lingering on the table.

“Hey...”

“Hey.”

A whisper and a breath, a hesitation and a caress. Hanamaki’ soft, pained voice shaped Matsukawa’s answer into a tender, heart-warming confession.

The rose-haired man glanced up for a brief instant, enough for his doe eyes to meet Issei’s drowsy affection. It tainted his cheeks in a pastel blush, and Matsukawa decided he had been the artist behind the stroke, and not the chilly greyish day.

“I didn’t think you’d be here, frankly...” Hanamaki breathed out.

“I said I would be, didn’t I?”

Takahiro shuddered, and the dark-haired man smiled easily, “How has your week been?”

His companion made no answer, and Matsukawa saw in his silence the painful glimmer of a broken heart. Every time he saw him, his muse looked a little more shattered. And as if the sight reminded him of an equally as painful reality, Issei’ smile faltered for a second.

A second during which he remembered that his friend had been in love, with a woman in all aspects different from him, with a sweet soul whose life had been cut short.

He remembered that his friend was mourning a lady whose death was the one and only reason behind their very encounter, and with whom Makki would have spent his life had he been allowed to.

Matsukawa was but a mere sight to enjoy while looking away from a disheartening reality; an escape.

Hanamaki finally shook his head, and Issei’ smile reappeared with its usual honesty.

Just flowing, following a path that nothing could make him stray from.

What had to go…

“We’re burying her tomorrow,” Hanamaki breathed out for all answer.

Matsukawa’s eyes widened, and he nodded. The week preceding a burial was just as dull as the week following it. Death was a change in the stream that could meet no quick equilibrium.

“I see,” he simply said, before gazing up. His tea was cold by now, “Will you be okay?”

He watched the other, observed the puddle of glitters in his eyes that could only betray the emotion he kept inside. Matsukawa’s gaze softened, and he kept his hands from reaching for his.

What could be the use of cold hands against warm gloves?

“I’d like you to come with me...”

Hanamaki spoke in a strangled voice, his lips finally emerging from the scarf, red with constant chewing and tears. Matsukawa lost his breath to the sight; heart-stopping, Hanamaki’s beauty, his sorrow… Simply heart-stopping.

“Come with you…?”

“To the funeral… The burial… I…” he searched for his words, his tone losing confidence as emotion took over again. His eyes fell to the table, and Matsukawa’s heart dropped with them, “I can’t go alone… And you… I couldn’t think of anyone else…”

He sniffled, keeping his tears from flowing, “I feel like it would all be easier if it was you…”

No strings attached, no ties, no history. Just a man with whom he had shared his smiles and silences.

Matsukawa knew not how to feel, if he could even feel at all.

Surprise and affection melted onto his face in a messy painting, and the strange canvas seemed to frighten Hanamaki.

He stood up, gulping, “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked-”

“Of course.”

Silence again, as Matsukawa caught his eyes.

Parted lips, and heaving hearts. Hanamaki would have given himself up to the drowsy comfort of Matsukawa’s easy smiles, and Issei would have swum ashore to breathe closer to his dainty skin.

His heart thief, his singing muse, his time-stopping god…

“I’ll come with you. When should I pick you up?”

Hanamaki was startled out of his daze, heart hammering as Matsukawa smiled brighter before his confusion.

“Um… nine… nine O’clock should be fine...”

Issei nodded again. Flowing along, in all the easiness of untroubled life.

Hanamaki’s creamy blush turned cotton-candy.

_Look at you, strawberry blond_

“Nine O’clock it is, then...”

*****

The concrete road shone in a thousand sparks, ignited by a golden sun that had tried its hand at painting. The summery artist would simply not give its brushes away to fall’s clouds and winds, and Matsukawa drove through the dew-coated country with a certain indifference for the unearthly painters.

They were a pretty show to watch, but his thoughts were for a much more tangible god, resting by his side in the vehicle.

The cold pallor of October spared very few rays for Hanamaki’s features, and every glance Matsukawa took in his direction filled his heart with chagrin.

He wished the elements could mark a pause in their frantic ballet to illuminate the faded colours of his soft skin. He wished he could find the right words to compensate for the sun’s negligence.

Silence stretched between them, a cold grip spreading down to their bones like the embrace of a dewy grass mattress. The low purring of the car rocked Hanamaki into a restless sleep, or so Matsukawa wished. Slumber was always better than painful consciousness.

He let his eyes wander on the skyline, where the shape of the church would appear soon enough. A cemetery in the midst of beautiful fields, enough to bring peace to the aching souls on their way to a last adieu. Matsukawa wished the landscape was not so similar to the meadow in which they had spent a tranquil autumn stroll. He wished the sun stopped shining with this cold goldenness that had illuminated their beautiful morning.

He wished he could swim up the stream, live through that day again instead of this melancholic reprise.

But wishes were as real as prayers, and Matsukawa’s daydream was cut short by a single sound. A sob, just loud enough to pierce through his drifting mind and make his heart bleed.

He did not need to look at him to know that Hanamaki’s creamy face would be too much of a heart-breaking sight for him to handle.

They had been driving for a little over forty minutes now, for the churchyard was further into the countryside than the oak tree was. The ride had been filled with a careful silence, the tiptoeing presence of a parent fearing to wake a child. Not a sound, not a whisper under the frozen sun, nothing but this sudden sob that took Matsukawa’s heart away like a painful repetition.

Hanamaki would have only had to ask for Matsukawa to pump the oxygen from his very lungs and offer him his every breaths. Anything, as long as it spared them the agonizing robbery during which Takahiro blindly stole his very essence in hopes of finding a sense to his life.

Matsukawa heard without watching the sound of Hanamaki shifting around in his seat, and his hands tightened on the wheel. A freezing draft invaded the car as the strawberry-haired man opened the window, letting the world take over their privacy in loud gushes of wind, motorized growls and tires on concrete.

The safety that he could not find in their silence, Hanamaki found it in the shelter of sensations and clamour.

Matsukawa had seen enough shattered souls to know how heavy the weight of quietness could be to an empty shell. The void left in the chest, never to be filled again, was the soundbox of all the thoughts and regrets of the mind, and if one was to suffer from the tiniest echo of a teardrop, it was better to drown the entire cavity in a cacophony of all sorts.

He kept his eyes on the road, listening to the wind in hopes of being able to tell his strawberry-blond friend’ sorrow from the dulling noise. Matsukawa gulped, resisting the desire to turn around, see him, reach for him. How deafening was the rest of the universe, aching like a drug’s misleading euphoria, numbing his senses to the mourning man’s distress.

There was no sound more painful and blaring than that sob and its echo in the empty car.

And yet he’d give everything to hear it again, to listen to it all, instead of this muted reality that kept him separated from Hanamaki.

He’d take a last dive into the abyss if he could hold him one last time.

Another sob broke through the deafening shield, and Matsukawa couldn’t have helped himself if he tried. He simply had to face it, or at least face him. Simply had to know.

He gulped, searching for words that would not come as he spared his friend a glance.

Hanamaki’s arm was outstretched through the lowered window, batted by the freezing wind. The golden sun cast a painful beauty on his tearful face, making Matsukawa’s heart ache for him.

The wind was so cold, so deafening, like the thunder of a waterfall.

He just had to catch him. Stop him from drifting any further.

He had to swim ashore, for the both of them.

But the words simply would not come out. It was all too loud, and the pain was all too stark.

So he let his eyes glide back to the road, and let the world speak for them.

*****

Everything was silent because Hanamaki was.

A priest spoke in the distance, words, many of them Matsukawa did not believe. A word after another, for whoever could hear. Maybe for the mother, whose sobs echoed in all the quietness of the world.

Only mothers should be heard in times of such sorrow.

And yet the priest spoke, spoke over her, spoke over the pain. A maestro guiding the weeping sounds with his words, offering the reassurance of a God long silenced. Spoken over by men.

Everything was silent because Hanamaki was.

The mother was part of the silence, and the priest the reason for it.

A mourning melody, playing with the strings of human guitars under the hearts’ slow drums.

Hanamaki was silent, and so were his eyes. Lost. Lost on the coffin, seeing beyond. Beyond words.

Matsukawa had seen enough of those empty gazes to know that they held back the loudest cries.

So he watched, kept an eye on him, under that tree, away from those people.

They had stood there for a little over fifteen minutes, listening to a stranger speaking words that weren’t made for the living. Side by side, and yet Matsukawa had never felt so far from him.

His strawberry blond beauty, embraced by the cold-hearted sun. A star mocking him, painting his friend in golden shades like peppered kisses, while he stood there, so far and yet so close.

Unable to touch, to speak.

Trapped in the silent world of a thief that was also his god, waiting for a sign that he could make any move at all.

Like in a frozen river.

Hanamaki was so calm, standing there. From so far away, Matsukawa could watch him, appreciate the scene like an onlooker. They were so few around that coffin. They wept, seeking meaning in helpless words from a man who devoted his life to finding a reason beyond loss.

They have no answers, and so they lose themselves in questions.

What do you think Makki?

So silent against me…

There is not a flicker of life in his soft eyes, not the hint of a smile on his pink lips. The wind animates his hair like a puppeteer, toys with him like a doll. He is so beautiful, basking in that insulting sun.

Matsukawa would be jealous of such a pretentious artwork had he not dreamed of sketching his features himself with the thinnest pencil. Layers of rich autumn colours could not encompass the texture of his milky skin, the sharpness of his tender eyes.

Give him a pencil, and he’d lay him out like a muse. Outline his body in ashen shades, only keep the shape of his everything. A snapshot.

A photograph to show to your grandchildren near the fireplace. A picture to fall in love with.

Matsukawa swallows a smile, keeps it trapped in his chest. He fights against the desire to take his hand and take him away. A hundred places to visit, and a perfect stream to take them to the end of the world.

But he fights back, sets foot in the shallow water, and waits for him to join.

He was but a hand offered to a thief, and a mere swimmer inviting a god into the bed of his river.

A tainted sorrow silenced the cemetery as they lowered the coffin, at last.

Matsukawa forced his eyes away from his distant muse, slid them over the familiar wooden box.

A second passes, and the final bed lays in the ultimate home.

The world falls silent around them. Everyone silent, priest and mother alike. The words have stopped, dried up under the heartless sun like a feeble trickle. The quest for sense has ended, and the inexhaustible string of hopeful phrases with it.

Matsukawa knows all about endings. He chose the sea to drift away so that never again he would feel the dry soil give way beneath his feet.

The world falls silent at last, and with its closing up, a soft touch rests against his shoulder.

A cheek, a muse. Without a whisper, birds start singing again.

A softer melody, like the gentle sound of a river.

Matsukawa watches as the mother places flowers on the tomb.

He lets Hanamaki bury hidden tears in the safety of his shoulder.

He doesn’t need to know.

He doesn’t need to speak.

*****

“I’m sorry I brought you here…”

There’s a silence that Matsukawa cannot define, and Hanamaki’s words shatter it in soft simplicity. Like a discreet confession, a tender secret that wrecks an entire world. He wields his hammer like a god, unaware that Issei’s heart is of the most fragile glass.

The trees were following them, bowing in a last reverence as the car brought them back to the city. Matsukawa was not sure he could entrust them with his answer, knowing that their roots could bring the content of his heart down into the tomb of Hanamaki’s loved one.

How presumptuous would it be to trouble her rest with his own agitation.

“Don’t be,” he breathed out, keeping his eyes on the concrete road.

Matsukawa was swimming back into the stream, into the safety of a never-ending river, where his presence would never be an offence to the dead and the mourning.

Diving back into the abyssal beauty of numbing coldness, like the chilling draft engulfing itself in the car.

He would just have to close his eyes for the suffering to stop, and drive until the road gave up on them.

To a cliff, or a spying tree.

“I mean it.”

There’s a tremor to Hanamaki’s voice that ripples onto his heart, testing its resistance before the final blow.

Matsukawa wants to silence him.

With his lips or a sharp turn. Whichever shall take their pain away first.

“I shouldn’t have brought you into my mess… And I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m sorry, Matsukawa. I’m so terribly sorry…”

Matsukawa doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to look at him. What if he sees himself? What if he’s gone? What if this is an illusion, a siren luring him ashore with heartless sobs?

There’s a melody in the cold air, but his muse wouldn’t sing to him in such painful moments.

There’s the melody of Hanamaki’s tears, and it shatters him to pieces.

“You loved her,” he finally whispered, and there was no sound to his voice but a breathy murmur. Barely even audible, “It’s the only thing you’ve lied about, Makki, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

His voice rang through the air at last, soft and assured. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t cry.

He drifts along.

The golden sky glimmered on the morning dew, covering the world in diamonds. He’d have happily collected them all and made them into a necklace for his cotton-candy sweetheart to wear.

There was nothing but love in his heart, as much as it ached and yearned for peaceful ease.

Matsukawa waited for Hanamaki’s answer without expecting it. Despair had left his mind as easily as a bird flees a cage.

Like a flower on a river, a petal in the air.

Words failed them in their familiar unreliability, shying away from the matter like children in front of the deed accomplished. There were shattered hearts on the floor, and neither knew which pieces belonged to whom.

“But maybe I love you too.”

The thief stole his eyes again. Made him turn his head so sharply Matsukawa couldn’t help the shaky breath that caught his throat and refused to let go.

He watched him, watched him like you watch a dying flame, fearing its last flicker, and his hands gripped onto the wheel not to let the flood wash him away.

Hanamaki’s reddened eyes avoided his, still dripping with painful tears. He was resting against the open window, sniffing softly as he had nothing to blow his nose with. His arm was out again, playing with a cold draft that the unbothered sun failed to warm up.

The star was slowly giving up, exhausting its last breath in the autumnal ballet.

No one can dance forever.

Matsukawa swallowed dryly, a storm taking over his mind. He forced his eyes back to the road.

“Hanamaki-”

“You still haven’t sung your song.”

_Reach out the car window  
Trying to hold the wind_

Matsukawa felt his heart tighten, and he pressed an aching smile to the seal of his lips.

“Well, it isn’t our last day together, is it? Nor our first… Why would I sing it?”

“Because I’d love to hear you…”

Matsukawa shivered, from the cold, or maybe from the unforgiving bite of hope.

He knew better than to listen to the rustling leaves of the forest nearby, knew better than to listen to the trees and their deceiving cover.

There was no shadow more reassuring than the protective bed of a river, and he couldn’t afford to swim back to the fake warmth of the land.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you might not be ready to hear it.”

He might never be. He’d warned him.

He’d blushed and gazed down, and Matsukawa had smiled and lied to himself.

It’s okay, he’d say, as it if was.

I’ll be there, he added, shackling himself to a painful dream, throwing his anchor into dark depth disguised as shallows.

Matsukawa heard the rustle of Hanamaki’s anxiety, and his jaw stiffened.

Oh how he wished he could silence him. But the road ahead forced him to keep his eyes open to face the reality of further lies, and the whispering trees couldn’t even mute the sound of Hanamaki’s hope with their swishing deception.

“We missed our first day together already,” Takahiro breathed out, “With my… my lies and… and everything else. We missed it. I wouldn’t want to miss the last-”

“You won’t.”

Matsukawa’s hands tightened around the wheel as if it could keep him afloat. There were drums in his chest that forced his heart to beat to a rhythm that would lead him to his execution.

“I was here for you, Makki, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Silence took over the car again, letting the words dance around in their minds, like a heady tune that you cannot forget.

Matsukawa drove him back to his home, without either of them uttering a word more.

And he tried, tried so hard not to look at him again. He tried to focus on the road, the stream, pushed every fibre of his being not to cave in.

But all it took was a furtive look in the rear mirror to lead to another. For a second to three, and for those seconds to last longer than a lifetime.

He was so beautiful, with his puffy eyes and hesitant smile, looking out the window and caressing the wind like a child on a first drive. He’d take him on a road trip around the world if he could. On a sail on an endless ocean, from where they could see all the sunsets in the world.

Eventually, their eyes met. Bumped into each other in the mirror, as if by accident, before gazing away with a tender blush; like a first present, a flower picked up on the run for a childhood sweetheart.

Then they met again, lingered, like a perfume on a worshipped wrist.

Hanamaki offered hesitant smiles in return for Matsukawa’s pink cheeks, and in consequence he indulged him with a drowsy grin whenever he felt himself strong enough to withstand his pastel companion’ sweet fluster.

Dear, maybe he did love him…

Time flew like a bird of prey, riding the currents of freer streams that Matsukawa couldn’t control. The car’s background purr fell silent as they reached Hanamaki’s home, and as soon as they were parked, Matsukawa was following him to the threshold, hands in his pockets. He watched as the other took out his key, smiled upon seeing the purple gloves.

His heart twitched as the door opened; he’d have wished to freeze to death outside as long as he was with him.

He was about to force himself to utter a peaceful goodbye when Hanamaki turned around, taking his breath away. He was such a heart-stopping sight to witness…

“When was our first day, then?”

The question took Matsukawa by surprise, and he offered him a sorry smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… If you had had to sing for our first day, when would you have chosen it?”

Matsukawa watched the other man gaze aside in endearing embarrassment, his cheeks matching his hair in a candy-like painting.

He thought for a few seconds, letting the memories drift by.

He caught one, and smiled softly.

“Probably that day, in the fields.”

He saw Hanamaki matching his smile, and they both stood in silence. The reminiscence was too warm for them to feel the freezing air of the outside world; warmth was theirs to harness.

Memories were theirs to cherish.

“Would you sing today?” The question made Matsukawa’s heart skip a beat as he gazed up, meeting Hanamaki’s hesitant smile, “I mean, now that we have been fully honest with each other… Would you accept this as our first day… and sing for me?”

A draft caresses his strawberry hair, and Matsukawa feels his lungs swell up with affection. Enough to make his hands shake in his pockets.

“No.”

He watched as Hanamaki’ smile melted softly, felt his throat tighten up like it was his own.

Hell, he might just steal it for good, in retaliation for the heart he had lost to this little god in peachy apparel.

“Why?” the other man articulated with painful confusion.

Matsukawa smiled, enough to snatch the sorrow away from Hanamaki’s expression; Bonnie and Clyde could but watch as their legacy disappeared under the playful thieves’ courting crimes.

“Because it isn’t the right day,” he whispered tenderly, volutes of mist escaping his lips as he spoke, “The day I sing to you, Hanamaki, will be our first day. And we’ll get to choose it, and make it the prettiest day there is.”

He watched as Hanamaki’s confusion melted into the most beautiful expression he’d ever seen, enough to make the gods palish.

Their astral ballet couldn’t compare with the ethereal beauty of his strawberry blond heartthrob.

“A promise then…” he whispered, before chuckling tenderly, “I like the sound of that.”

It was all it took for Matsukawa to reach the shallows again.

_You tell me you love her  
I give you a grin  
Oh all I ever wanted was a  
Life in your shape  
So I follow the white lines  
Follow the white lines  
Keep my eyes on the road  
As I ache_

*****

They’d never exchanged phone numbers, in the end, and Matsukawa was too far away already to go back to his sweetheart’ side when he realized it. He decided it wasn’t important, and held onto the only numbers he shared with Hanamaki: the address of their cafe, and the hours of his presence.

Their encounters would be, as they had always been, a gentle nudge of fate.

Matsukawa’s days were as similar as a water droplet is to another, one succeeding to the other without challenging their monotonous rhythm. The eternal flow of his life carried him along a peaceful path that worries avoided, fearing to drown in bottomless insipidity.

That was, until Hanamaki came along.

He had brought with his cheeky grins a melancholic tune that had lured Matsukawa away from the river, like a pastel mermaid of dry lands. That melody had changed his days and nights, had replaced the sounds of the leaves and waters, had taken away the smell of wet concrete.

That song simply wouldn’t leave his mind, and the days following the burial were no exception.

Every time the sun woke up in the horizon, it lost bit of strength to the unforgiving obstinacy of the new season. It would get up with sore muscles from endless dances, and cast its weakening light on the Earth.

The trees shed their leaves in helpless tears as the ageing star threatened to give its last reverence with every passing minute.

Matsukawa did not fear the nearing end of the dance, for he had long forgotten about the tune of shortening days. He only had ears and smiles for the song his muse played, and so the dull days remained bright to his softened heart.

Everyday, he went to the cafe, ordered a cup of tea, waited. Everyday, he let the song lead his steps towards the table at which he had met him, as if by some sweet miracle, he would see him again. He would watch his peachy cheeks, maybe ask to sketch them, paint them. He would listen to his warm laughter, and recognize some notes of the constant melody in the music of his heart. He would never leave, and maybe, just maybe, Hanamaki wouldn’t go either.

Yet everyday, Matsukawa left. Left and came back. Went and went away. Following the whims of the tide, letting the thought of a single man guide his steps past a thousand.

A week went by, carrying a frightening chill that his cup of tea failed to defeat. He was a fool, foolish, to sit on that chair near the side-walk, with not even the sun to wait alongside him. Days had become shorter, and the golden hour that had painted his soft encounter a few weeks ago had been replaced by an ink-coloured chill.

Yet he wouldn’t move an inch, wrapped in that same coat, with no gloves nor scarf. Nothing but the cup, the chair, and the perfect frame for a painting long completed. A set for a play already acted.

And the painful song twirled in his mind as the single actor stood alone on the stage of a duet.

“You failed to mention you were a masochist, but I’ll take a note of that...”

A perfect voice, for the final harmony of the reprise.

Matsukawa gazed up to the hazy figure of his dreams, and a drowsy smile crept up his lips.

Hanamaki was there, wrapped in his thick coat and scarf, volutes of mist escaping his lips as he watched him with eyes that Issei could only describe as concerned.

Why did he look so worried? There was nothing to dread any longer; his god had reappeared.

He chuckled, “The only kind of masochist that exists is the type that drinks coffee...”

He could almost swear Hanamaki’s rosy face turned a shade darker, “Oh even you cannot be innocent enough to think that all masochists do is drink coffee,” he sighed, plopping on the chair opposite Matsukawa’s.

The other man’s heart dropped, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak. If he stood very still, maybe time would freeze the river in its bed.

“No but seriously, aren’t you cold, out there? You didn’t even buy gloves!” Hanamaki whined, as dramatic as could be.

“It’s still autumn, no matter the appearances,” Matsukawa shrugged in a chuckle, “I said I’ll buy some later.”

The other man crossed his arms, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Oh, you’re definitely running out of time, I’ll tell you that...”

“Am I?”

Matsukawa’s tender smile stole the answer off Hanamaki’s lips, and for a second, he stood silent, like a thief surprised by a robbery.

A cold draft caressed their skins, forcing them into movement. Takahiro exhaled deeply, hugging himself for more warmth.

“I was right… “Carefree”! That’s what you are! So carefree that you lost your brain to… to a cup of tea!”

The pink-haired man stood up, offering his gloved hand, “Come on, grandpa. I’m taking you inside before you catch a cold. They have this wonderful thing called a “heating system”, and it usually pleases old people like you...”

Matsukawa watched him like you watch a fantasy, not quite realizing he was being addressed, not quite believing he could hold his hand. But he did.

He reached up and Hanamaki caught him, picked him up like a feather; an effortless, seemingly unimportant gesture, and yet to the tufty shed it meant a whole new world of possibilities.

Matsukawa’s cold hand caught Hanamaki’s, and did not let go as he brought him back into the basking light.

Holding on-

*****

“Every time I find myself thinking you won’t be here, there you are...”

Matsukawa was squeezing a new cup of tea between his hands, eyes lost onto the amber liquid. A soft breath rippled its surface, little waves running after one another, never to catch their playmate.

Childish thing that was a cup of tea, really…

His eyes perked up as Hanamaki spoke, catching his partner’ soft ones. The pastel-haired man had opted for a glass of water, and Matsukawa had kept himself from commenting on the amusing choice.

They had been sitting in a comfortable silence for a few minutes now, enjoying the privacy of a table in the corner of the almost empty shop. Issei found himself almost surprised to hear him speaking up.

“Hadn’t I told you I would be there?”

“You did. But I didn’t think you’d keep coming back every day, especially after the-”

The burial.

Hanamaki’ silence and avoidant eyes were loud enough for Matsukawa to hear him as clear as spring water. He set his cup of tea down on the table, offering his muse a peaceful smile.

“And yet, here I am.”

He caught Hanamaki’s eyes, watched as they shone with a confused glimmer that promptly melted into relief. The other man chuckled.

“Here you are, indeed.”

Minutes passed like days, long enough for a painter to capture the beauty of a thousand silent kisses. Matsukawa had barely needed seconds to etch the beauty of his chilly thief, and so any artist should have been able to convey his untold affection in that short lapse of time. Paint the hesitant gazes Hanamaki offered him, draw the edges and curves of his body, sing the silences, short breaths, the hopeful inhales and exhales.

1 minute and 55 seconds.

The length of a song.

“Have you… Were you the one who… took care of her body…?”

Hanamaki’s voice caught Matsukawa’s eyes again, and he watched him in the stretch of a pause. Takahiro’s gaze was still avoiding his, dimmed by a sorrow which would never know its own ending.

“No. My colleague did.”

Matsukawa wished he could know the right answer to Hanamaki’s fears, wished he could open safely all of his doors until he could find his heart and soothe it. Until he could reach for his pain and steal it from him, no matter how heavy it was.

He’d chain it to his own ankles and drown if it was all it took to bring the light back into his sweetheart’ smiles.

Hanamaki swallowed dryly and offered him the pale copy of grin, “Ah… I see...”

A few seconds passed, during which Matsukawa’s eyes did not leave the other man’s twitching fingers and pinched lips.

“But, have you seen her?”

Hanamaki’s voice cracked, and with it Matsukawa’s heart.

The warm cup of tea failed to keep his hands warm; in the breach of his core, a chilling draft had stilled all flows.

A crack, and Matsukawa was freezing to death on the pavement again.

His stunned silence pushed Hanamaki to clear his throat and risk a nervous gaze in his direction, “I mean, have you seen the… work you colleague did on-”

“No, I haven’t.”

His words came out as harsh, insensitive, and he saw their effect on Makki’ stiffening body. It shattered his crystallized heart to pieces, and the shock of his own reaction barred him from adding more than a soft, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry for everything.

His words seemed to soothe Hanamaki’ skittish soul; muses were so easily frightened and gone.

The peachy man spoke again, pressing the scarf to his chest, “Her… Her parents couldn’t bring themselves to… organize the ceremony. That’s why they sent me to you...”

He swallowed dryly, but Matsukawa saw the torrent of emotions flooding his eyes and voice with every word he spoke.

“We… We waited for weeks… Her body must have started decompos-”

“We preserve them, Makki.” He couldn’t let him finish the sentence; couldn’t let him break down. He couldn’t let a misconception bring sorrow to his god’s heart for a second longer, “We preserved her.”

There wasn’t much he could do to spare his sweetheart the suffering of eternal loss. But if he could ease his way through the deceptions of the mind and soul, he would.

A tremor shook Hanamaki’s hands, and he nodded weakly, eyes down, “I see...”

Another silence stretched that Matsukawa couldn’t enjoy. He felt like he stood on the edge of a precipice, fearing every draft, every shiver that could send him diving into oblivion.

Or rather, he felt like Hanamaki was the one dancing on the edge, like he had to shield him from the wind, the rain, from the gods themselves.

He watched as the other man shook his head, felt every muscles in his body ache for him.

Reaching out, taking his gloved hand.

Pull him back.

“I should have kissed her one last time, then… I should have taken a last look at her, to honour her, to honour your colleague’s work, I….” The river overflowed, dripping down his pastel cheeks like oil on a canvas. Enough to drown Matsukawa in the numbing chills of waters one cannot escape, “For fuck’ sake I didn’t even attend the ceremony, I just-”

“Hanamaki.”

Or perhaps they were both standing hand in hand, on the frame of that window.

About to jump, or fall, and fearing that the other might move first.

Perhaps – just perhaps, Matsukawa held him tighter.

The length of a song passed, during which Matsukawa stole Hanamaki’s eyes, forced him into focusing, watching. Watch as the tenderness of a drifting soul offered him a warm smile against a frightening flood; an anchor point.

“It’s up to the living to decide what’s best for them,” Matsukawa breathed out from across the table; he had never been so close, “It’s up to us to do whatever it takes to stay strong and live on.”

Sing a song.

“Otherwise, we might as well bury ourselves alongside those we lost.”

To escape the aching roots of buried corpses, there was another way to fly than a last dive down from the window, the precipice

Or perhaps the key was to jump, and land in the arms of a drifting river.

A single tear ran down Hanamaki’s cheek as Matsukawa’ smile broadened, “And keep on living. Always.”

_Look at you, strawberry blond_

“Can we go to the fields, tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

*****

The next morning coloured the world in a warm sunlight that Matsukawa could not explain. It painted the skies in unique hues of blue, chased the clouds away, dried up the dew coat of a waking world as if to prepare for a special occasion.

A truce of peace that the star had signed with the coldest winds for one last glorious number to perform.

Matsukawa drove along the fluttering trees’ guard of honour, a soft melody twirling in his head that he was never to forget.

“Do you come here often, Mattsun?”

The nickname aimed for his heart and sent it aflutter, and a smile grew on his lips that he could not contain.

Affection made his lungs swell with a hundred breaths that he saved for later kisses; later kisses for a pink-haired lover.

Matsukawa’s eyes searched for Hanamaki’s figure, and he barely had to turn his head to see him. His friend was leaning against the window, facing away; he looked at peace, like a still-life not to be disturbed, and yet Issei would have captured his jaw like a predator just to bring him closer.

“I don’t know… How often would “often” be?”

He let his eyes run back to the road, settled on watching him through the reflection on the rear mirror; like a hidden picture, an indirect kiss on the brim of a glass. Hanamaki opened the window, let the air in; it was warmed with the perfume of lady Earth, the sun’s last embrace offering her the decaying beauty of its prettiest flowers.

“Well, I don’t know… Once a week would be consequent enough, I guess...” the other man simply said, taking his arm out to caress the wind.

Matsukawa watched the road again, thinking for a few seconds. A melody danced in his mind, “I’d say I come here at least every two weeks… The place is nice and calm, and I’ve never seen anyone but myself under the oak tree.”

Hanamaki hummed, “I see… That’s quite often, I suppose.”

A pause stretched between them, and Matsukawa did not gaze back to him. He kept his eyes on the concrete road, drove on with no aim but that old oak and its safe shade. The buzzing sounds of the country were overcoming that of the engine in a peculiar bumble that echoed against his own heart; like the nickname, a sweet melody to his ears.

Like a last serenade to summer time.

“It’s quite warm today...”

Four words and Hanamaki had stolen his eyes again, stolen them with the audacity of a lady; requiring without giving back, demanding devotion while offering nothing but the dainty curve of his opal neck and the gentle fuzziness of his strawberry hair to the longing eyes of his poor suitor.

How cruel of her to taunt him, of him to indulge her.

“It is,” Matsukawa answered in a dismissive hum.

He tore his eyes from the demanding muse, focusing back on the road, on the concrete path that he had to follow, guiding, leading to an open-space of grass and sunlight that his pretty heartthrob could not escape.

And yet Issei’s eyes found the rear mirror again, and in it, the angle of his jaw, the discrete curl of his lips. It offered everything he wished to see, like a window on a parallel world where he could feel his breath, hear the drums of his heart, touch – touch his skin, caress his lips, brush his hair.

Matsukawa watched his strawberry locks, caressed by the wind in shimmering waves of cotton-candy fuzz. He watched the flutter of his lashes, the bump of his face structure, forgot about the road.

Watched as the sun lit up his features, exalted his wild curls, gave to his very being the sparkling beauty of a sun-kissed lake.

A thousand accidents he could have had, stolen whole as he was by this cheeky doll of a thief.

A smile grew on his face as he let his eyes dance on the road again, and his lips curled into a few words of many pauses.

“The sun suits you.”

A silence ensued that Matsukawa did not turn to. He kept his gaze on the road, let his words resonate; there’s an echo to all utterances that is often too quickly filled with answers, and loses the boldness of their repercussions.

Hanamaki waited for the last ricochet before taking a sharp inhale that matched the twitch in Matsukawa’s heart.

“The sun suits everyone.”

There was a sight that the rear window had not offered him that Issei yearned for; a glimmer that he had only caught once or twice, that he had rarely been able to steal for more than a heartbeat.

The sweet crime would not cost more than a few words, and yet he had to pick them with care; what Matsukawa gave away freely, Hanamaki kept hidden under the veil of his apprehension.

Stealing from him was a far softer adventure, like catching a bird.

“Does it suit me, then?”

His voice is tender enough, or maybe was it that Hanamaki knew he was not looking at him at that moment.

In any case, the restless bird landed, and with his appeasement came the hesitant rustle of clothes as Takahiro turned around.

Matsukawa stole the sight of his soft eyes from the rear mirror.

The hint of a victorious smile appeared on his lips as he watched Hanamaki detail him briefly, watched the softness of his face, relished in the absence of tears and the discreet twitch of light-hearted amusement. He had missed the tender expressions that had ignited the fires of his own affection.

Yet the pink-haired thief outsmarted him again, stealing a heartbeat from him as the ever-desired eyes fell onto his face, watched him in the privacy of their own ignorance.

Matsukawa quickly focused on the road, fearing that he might get caught in his voyeuristic glances, dreading to scare the doe away without having been able to approach it.

He watched the road, forced his fluttering heart into a low, regular rhythm. His cheeks were heating up under the burning gaze of his god, like a sinner praying under the shrine of his own devotion.

And just as Matsukawa felt his own heart nearing explosion under the uncontrollable silence, a smiling voice soothed the storms of his mind.

“Yes, it does.”

The words shattered the shell of his hasty defences, and freed his heart from the dangerous stillness of its frozen seconds.

Unaware that he had been stolen from again, Matsukawa turned his eyes to the maestro of his breaths, watched the sun illuminating his distant smile.

Hanamaki was gazing ahead already, watching the road, eyes alight and lips curled into a peaceful curve.

A soft smile grew on Matsukawa’s lips, and he turned back to watch the concrete path.

He’d only been a single second too late.

But a heartbeat sooner would have simply been too early.

_Fields rolling on  
I love it when you call my name  
Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?  
Watching your arm  
I love it when you look my way_

*****

The early morning sun was a poor thief, and had failed to steal the entirety of the grass’ dewy coat. From the tree-top horizon, a warm light spread over the immense fields in a vague attempt at winning the last battle of a lost war.

It was a duel already acted, and what the colder times offered in condescending mercy, the star took with the fiery passion of wounded pride.

Matsukawa took in the sight of the waking world with a soft smile, unaware of the battlefield’s pains and bloodshed. The warm rays of the morning sun caressed his cheeks, blinding his sight without taking it away; the star’s kindness was an unexpected surprise that in no way troubled him.

The young man took a long intake of air, letting the flowery scents of nature fill his lungs. To his side, Hanamaki let out a low groan, and Matsukawa smiled softly upon seeing him laying down on the wet mattress of remaining dew. He watched the soft edges of his face scrunching up in discomfort as he made himself comfortable, and a chuckle escaped his lips.

“What were you expecting?” Issei smiled, hands buried in his pockets as he leaned against the oak tree.

A chilly breeze fought for his attention, caressed his cheeks and agitated the branches in hopes of capturing his gaze again.

Yet, all he could see was Hanamaki, the beauty of his sun-kissed features, the soft volutes of mist escaping his lips in little mushrooms of air.

The pink-haired man turned to him with a pouty grumble, and Matsukawa lost his breath again.

“Ugh, nothing much, that’s the issue...” He raised a hand, taking in the sight of his soaked sleeve. Issei followed his gaze and found great amusement in the other man’s defeated sigh.

His soft chuckle didn’t pass unnoticed; a suspicious gaze from his muse was enough to dust his cheeks with crimson shades, “Oh spare me the giggles, old man. Come lay with me instead, will ya?”

Matsukawa lost his smug grin to a heart twitch and his wit to a dumbfounded silence. A gentle song played in the back of his mind, chasing away all notions of sense.

Lay with him? Was he even allowed to?

The taller man gulped as the words sank down, dragging him down a path of nervous eagerness. He let the silence stretch for a few seconds, offering the opportunity of a dismissive chuckle that never came.

Matsukawa watched as Hanamaki’s eyes found their way back to the blue ceiling, unreadable, unaware of their impact. Issei interpreted the sudden silence as a misleading delusion of his own starstruck mind, and so he forced a chuckle out of his dry throat.

“No thank you. Some of us have jobs, and catching a cold doesn’t pay the rent.”

He watched as Hanamaki rolled his eyes and pressed his hands to his stomach; with each movement, his negligent muse tightened the ropes of Matsukawa’s hopeless devotion.

“Says the one who was sitting alone in the night yesterday… Sit your butt down, will ya?” His gaze fluttered to the side as a pinkish blush coloured his nose and cheeks, “I… can’t hear you very well from down there...”

Matsukawa’s lips parted in a soft inhale and he couldn’t help the gentle throb in his heart that endearment caused.

Softly, he indulged his little muse with fragile confidence, sitting down on the wet grass with a slight hiss. The dew layer pierced through his clothes, promising an uncomfortable day.

“Hearing issues, uh?” he managed to chuckle, gazing aside, “Who’s the old man now?”

He watched as Hanamaki grinned in return, scrunching up his nose in amused annoyance, “Shush, you… At least I don’t drink tea…”

Matsukawa offered him a fond smile, watching him in all the affection of a smitten man; he was even prettier from up close, a canvas of light freckles and pastel lips.

Silence wrapped around them like a soft blanket, enough to soothe his restless heart.

With a stroke of boldness, Matsukawa leaned down on the ground, against him, so close. Humidity seeped right through his coat, licked his hands, his nape, soaked his hair. But he paid no mind to the sensations of the outside world: his eyes rose to the blue skies, and he let it be the only road to watch.

How tender would it be, to find a rear mirror in the reflection of a cloud…

“Told ya you should have invested in winter clothes, Mattsun ~”

A melody, a soft breath against the ear.

Close, oh so close…

A secret.

Matsukawa turned his face to the side, eyes widening softly. Disbelief was a weak word, and emotion an insult.

Hours of adoration couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of his muse, for the warmth of his chocolate eyes, shimmering like puddles of honey under the autumnal sun. He should have braced himself for the scenery of his curves and angles, the texture of his milky skin, sprinkled with hazel stars – the batting of his lashes, like the drums of his heart.

And yet he watched like a stunned child witnessing snow for the first time, like a dehydrated man in front of an oasis. He watched him, saw only him, him and his pink locks like a curly frame for a never-witnessed beauty.

Love at first sight.

Makki had shifted his weight on his side, resting his cheek on his hands like a sleeping muse. The tender amusement in his eyes froze Matsukawa’s every movement like an ancient soldier’ stone punishment; atonement for a crude offence to a snake-haired goddess.

Moments passed that no breeze or whim of the Earth could disturb; Hanamaki had caught Matsukawa’s eyes and would not let go. Bold little thing, playing coy all along and suddenly losing all shyness in the final distance.

Matsukawa would have teased him about it had his lungs not been emptied of their air by the sheer strength of his affection.

So he watched. Watched as a soft blush caressed Hanamaki’s cheeks, as his eyes fluttered between his and a spot below his Cupid’s bow to which he did not dare give a name. Fluttered like a hesitant butterfly, a breath away from…

His heart ached with fearsome anticipation as Hanamaki’s hesitation grew nearer and nearer with every passing second; and in the warm caress of his shaky breath, Matsukawa heard a stutteringecho of his own emotion.

Yet before the granted wish of a thousand prayers, Hanamaki’s throat hitched, a dimming flicker in his eyes putting out the fire of Matsukawa’s eagerness.

He watched as Hanamaki wrung his fingers together in an anxious attempt at grounding himself. Watched as his sweetheart slowly rolled onto his back.

Watched as he left. Went far, far away from him.

Leaving him for the company of her tomb, as he so rightfully could.

Matsukawa did not move an inch, wouldn’t have breathed at all had he been allowed to. He kept his eyes on his distant muse and the painful twitch of his lips.

“I love her.”

A well-known melody.

Matsukawa had learned it before Hanamaki even uttered the shadow its lyrics.

“I love her… _so much_ , Mattsun.”

Takahiro’s voice was as a castle of cards, threatened by the lightest breeze. Issei could but watch with saucy eyes, starstruck; a breath escaped his lips that he was unable to bend into words.

“I will never stop loving her, I could never forget her…”

In his dumbstruck confusion, all that Matsukawa could do was nod; he knew.

The taller man watched, watched as that beautiful sweetheart of his trembled against him, facing the sky and its cerulean offence.

He saw the single tear dripping down his beloved cheek, lost his breath to the wobbling lips of one who haunted his days and nights.

And in a second, Hanamaki was facing him again, so close, so far, just an inch away. Their eyes met; his broken beauty and his hopeless devotion.

“You know that… right, Mattsun?”

A melody in E minor, a broken chord.

Matsukawa nodded again, silence for all answer, for a question without solution.

There, sinking in the wet casket of soil and grass, he wished he had the power to rise up, reach up – stop the stream.

He wished he could move his hand just high enough to dry a god’s tears.

An inch away.

Hanamaki’s eyes flickered again as Issei nodded, “Good.”

His muse laid on his side, clothes ruffling against the green mattress as he huffed under the effort. Matsukawa watched him in tender confusion and affectionate awe, waiting for another question that never came. Hanamaki laid there, eyes closed and reddened with the dry trail of tears, and Issei waited.

A song passed during which his silent sweetheart did not move nor gaze up.

A song passed, before Matsukawa slowly matched his position, resting onto his side. A breath away.

If Hanamaki noticed, he did not show it.

Issei raised a careful hand to his cheek, lost his breath to his own apprehension. He pressed it to the soft skin, and found himself surprised to feel its warm humidity under the hesitant touch of his fingers. As if, by some cruel game of fate, Hanamaki would have shattered under his very hand.

The strawberry-haired beauty opened his eyes, their soft glimmer pumping boldness through Matsukawa’s veins.

He stroke his cheek. Gently, drying off the tears, exploring the offered skin like an unbelievable present.

The grass was cold against their skin, and the rest of the world impatient in owning them again.

Yet, for a moment, they belonged to each other’s curiosity. Belonged to the gentle touch of a suitor, the silky skin of a muse, and the tender smiles of drifting lovers.

And, as if the unstoppable stream had been paused, as if their hesitant softness could replace a thousand words, the candid thieves stole each other’s lips for a kiss.

And another.

And another.

Small pecks, chaste and curious.

Peppering each other’s lips with silences and furtive smiles.

Holding on to each other not to drift away, with the brevity of their gazes as only lock.

The shared intimacy of their innocent confession outshone the sun and could make moons palish.

From this symphony of drumming hearts, a first note arose.

And another –

_Look at you, strawberry blond  
Fields rolling on  
I love it when you call my name_

*****

Some flowers bloom in winter never to taste the warm season’ sun.

Whether their love was to be an ephemeral cyclamen or a long lasting dandelion, only time would tell.

From two, Hanamaki and Matsukawa had become one. From one at the coffee table, they became two.

Details are easily lost to streams and winds, blown away like the notes of a song in a comic book. You see them without quite catching them; they’re like a memory.

The details of their ballade were alike their love: never quite spoken, never quite confessed.

You would walk past them in the streets and catch a bright smile on Hanamaki’s lips. You would see them at their coffee table and watch Matsukawa’s drowsy smile and warm cup of tea.

You would see them together, and never hear them.

They were alike a winter fairytale, inked rhymes feebly lit up by a little girl’s dying match

It would have been easy to tell their story in depth, to delve into every tender smile, every bright laughter, every kiss.

Yet the story belonged to them, like a secret whispered in a kindergarten lover’s ear.

*****

With nothing to tell each other but smiles and loving silences, they never exchanged phone numbers.

Whenever one needed the other, they would go to the cafe. Same hour, same table. And the other would come.

A few weeks went by during which Makki didn’t come every day, leaving Matsukawa to sip on his tea for warmth. A few weeks went by during which the strawberry blond widower tiptoed into the water, tasted its warmth, panicked and ran back ashore to pray near the tomb of the lady he once loved.

A few weeks, maybe one, maybe two…

Matsukawa waited for him every evening, and like a surprise, Hanamaki would appear, a day out of two, three, wrapped in his warm coat.

He’d be there for the next few days, disappear on the fifth, come back on another night, with reddened eyes and painful soul. On the next, he’d be all smiles, all tease.

A few weeks of curiosity, of silent kisses and unspoken tenderness, passed in the blink of an eye to the rhythm of the days and the melody of a song.

They’d be all discreet caresses on a bench, hands intertwined and hearts aflutter, or funny stories in the grass, complaining about the dew, oblivious about the view.

A whole show to themselves, that they were.

At the cafe table, tea and coffee, as if they still needed warmth. In the car, stolen glances in the rear window, as if they still needed to steal.

A hand on the gearbox, and a hand on another.

Casual teasing, “The day you can criticise my driving skills is the day you prove me you know how to drive.”

Casual comeback, “Ah, ah, ah, very funny. How do you think I go to the cafe everyday?”

And silences. Soft exhales.

Stealing each other’s breath with a gaze, their words with a kiss.

*****

“It isn’t sunny today…”

Matsukawa watched him. Strawberry blond hair, leaning against the buzzing window. Watching the coldness of the cloud-covered skies from the warmth of the car.

He gazed up, following his gaze to the ruins of the yearly battlefield; it wasn’t sunny today.

It wouldn’t be anymore, or so it seemed.

Every year, the sun lost, and came back. Immortal, waking up with the first songs of the birds.

A song to keep on living.

“It is.”

Hanamaki blinked and turned to him slowly, observing his lover.

His eyes were following the wet concrete path, darkened by winter days.

“How so?”

Matsukawa’s gaze briefly turned to him; caught his sweetheart’s glimmering irises with no mirror but the matching fondness of his own affection.

He smiled.

“It simply is.”

*****

There’s one day that stands out, in the middle of winter’s coldness.

A day when coffee and tea became insufficient, when the car’s heat was simply not enough.

That day, the two lovers found a mattress in their shape, and let it carry their words.

Kisses became caresses, caresses became breaths and whispers.

Murmurs and giggles.

They danced the night away in the twirling tune of a river.

Like two flowers blooming in the cold bed of winter.

_Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?  
Watching your arm  
I love it when you look my way_

_*****_

Matsukawa’s eyes wandered over the cracks of the ceiling, finding pretty shapes and clouds in the curve of its sky. A song had played in repeat in his mind for the last few minutes, background lullaby to a lonely evening wait for Morpheus’s late carriage.

He let the rhythm of Hanamaki’s breaths fill his head with symphonies, a silence only heard by those who listened to it.

Winter had taken away their grass bed and left them to a warmer cotton mattress. There, in the dimly lit room, the rest of the world and its pale light were shut out by the blinds, muted by the walls. And in evenings like this one, lamps and kisses kept the darkness away.

Matsukawa waited with no expectations and not a word on his lips, relishing in his lover’s warm presence. A gaze away, Hanamaki’s bare body was against his own, matching the heaving movements of his chest. His head was buried in a pillow, only leaving his peachy locks to the loving sight of his partner.

Issei couldn’t hold back a smile as he watched him, so close and yet no nearer than he had always been. He would just have to close his eyes to inhale the fresh scent of morning dew, the picture-perfect sky of dawn.

He let his eyes run down towards the soft figure of his beloved, watching the rolling muscles of his back, relishing in the soft glow of his scent.

Softly, Matsukawa pressed a bold finger to his waistline, where the edge of the sheet stopped providing him with intimacy, and trailed his digit up the curve of his spine. He smiled as he felt a shiver running after his tickling hand.

Issei caressed the fuzzy strawberry hair of his nape, and earned a soft sigh from his partner. He let his palm fall flat on his neck, warm and soothing.

Winter could wait.

“Say, Mattsun,” Hanamaki drawled in a low voice, “I have a question…”

Matsukawa’s eyes fell onto his head, unable to catch the expression on his hidden face. He smiled upon hearing the slurred tone, before gently wrapping his arms around his warm body to squeeze him closer.

“Go ahead.”

He watched as the pink-haired man squirmed in his hold, just enough to prop himself up on his elbows.

Weeks had passed without his beauty ever wilting, and Matsukawa found himself thinking that he must have been eternal. He let his gaze wander over the arch of his back, the shape of his shoulders; he felt infinitely small, laying there on that bed while his god stood up so high.

He could see him on that field, and imagined the sun shedding its golden shades over his freckled skin, his exposed body; in every smile and gaze, he met him like a memory.

“What are we?”

Issei watched him, a single song on his mind like a distant thought.

He watched him, and for a second, saw only him.

What were “they”, if there was only him?

“I don’t know,” he breathed out against his lips, “What do you want us to be?”

He saw the flicker in Hanamaki’s eyes, the sheepish smile that curled his lips and covered his cheeks in a blush. Matsukawa lost his gaze to the curiosity of his features, exploring the beauty that weeks of adoration had carved in his memory.

Like a mirror, he matched his smile.

“Well, I might have an idea,” Hanamaki breathed out – like a confession. His avoidant eyes sought his again, lit up by a mischievous glimmer that freed butterflies in Matsukawa’ stomach, sparked a fire in his soul; stole his breath, “But I can’t tell you without a cost.”

Issei chuckled upon hearing the playful tone, seeing his muse waking up in his arms as if never to tire again, “Tell away…”

He was a modest man anyway, with no fortune to give but his own life. Stolen or given, he belonged to him.

Matsukawa watched, watched as his playful god leaned in to rub his nose against his, endless eyes catching his gaze like a prize.

“Sing the song, Mattsun~”

He blinked.

His ears rang with a bittersweet tune that matched the rhythm of his heart as easily as breathing matched the flow of his life.

It would have taken a heartbeat to sing the first note, and another to carry the tune to its finishing chords.

But what comes after a finale?

He had no words to offer, no presence but his arms, no comfort but his silences. If he sings, will it be the tune of new beginnings or the requiem of last appearances?

He’d never made a difference between the two, humming a single music as a welcoming gift to new faces he would bury the next day…

Drift away. Drift away never to hear the same leaves, the same wind, never to sink down.

Matsukawa had never been selfish, and he would probably never be; but when Hanamaki asked for his song, he simply decided he would ask for something in return.

“Let’s wait one last time.”

He watched as Takahiro’s lips twitched, a confused glimmer twinkling in his eyes; it brought appeasement to his heart.

“Don’t make such a pouty face,” he chuckled, raising a hand to caress his warm cheek, “We’ve waited all this time; I’m only asking for a few days.”

Matsukawa fondled his jaw in slow, tender movements; he could just cave in this instant, hum his tune just to soothe the longing light in his lover’s eyes.

Yet he held on; took his time to stand on his own two feet.

Made the decision to control his direction and its boundaries.

He needed to learn how to walk if he ever was to dance with Hanamaki.

“There’s a singing event at the cafe, next Friday. I’ll sing then, and you’ll give me your idea.”

Takahiro watched him, before squinting his eyes with a playful grin, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the romantic type, but I guess it makes sense...”

Matsukawa blinked and offered him an amused smile, “Does it?”

“Yeah. The whole “sitting alone in the cold while waiting for a prince in shining armour” bit gave it away.”

Issei couldn’t contain a bright laughter, and his amusement drew a proud grin on Hanamaki’s lips.

A giggly silent spread between them as Hanamaki leaned back on his stomach. Their eyes met, a breath away; a prelude to a first kiss on a mattress of dew.

Matsukawa smiled and nuzzled against his stupid little muse.

He marked a pause, a moment, before gazing into his eyes again.

“I want it to be a first day, you know...”

He watched as Takahiro purred, “F’course you do, you big dummy~”

“No, I mean it, Makki,” he continued in a terribly sweet voice, bare and exposed. He brought his hand to his cheek, cupping his lover’s face as preciously as a little bird. Their eyes met; his soft and loving, Makki’s adoring and tender, “I want you to sit at my table, on that day, with a large coffee and… and ask about my name.”

Hanamaki’s gaze melted into confused endearment, and he raised a hand to press against his lover’s, “I’m not sure I understand, Mattsun...”

“Let’s forget about each other.”

His lover frowned softly, raising a brow that only amused Issei more. He pressed their lips into a tender kiss, inhaling his scent, soothing him with rapid affection.

“The event’s in three days,” he whispered, “Let’s… go about our days without seeing each other. Let the anticipation build in. And on Friday, we’ll wear our most beautiful suits, and we’ll meet each other at the cafe.”

A first encounter for them never to part again.

Hanamaki’s eyes scanned him, and Matsukawa wished he could read his thoughts so as to speak the right words.

He needed to learn how to speak now.

One day, he’d have to say vows that no silences could utter.

Issei watched as Hanamaki chuckled and pressed his forehead to his, “Bold of you to assume I own a suit~”

Matsukawa watched his smile, let him steal his lips like the damned little thief he was.

Peace coursed through his veins like new blood, numbing his senses to anything that wasn’t his lover.

Hanamaki had those eyes in which he could drown without fear, and that smile that was alike a buoy in a stream.

With a gentle smile, Matsukawa wrapped his fingers around his nape to deepen the kiss.

He closed his eyes, and held on.

*****

Days are slow when you start counting them.

The concept had been foreign to Matsukawa, who had only known time as a continuous stream.

On Wednesday, he worked all day, welcoming customers with polite smiles and soft words of encouragement.

In the evening, he forced his steps away from the cafe, bending the river to his will. He walked home, fearing that if he were to drive, he would find his way to the old oak tree.

He watched his ceiling.

On Thursday, he buried a child’s mother.

He watched the woman stumble on her own words, watched her averting her reddened eyes and blowing her nose. He watched her fifty years of age shrinking down to a handful as she tried to put words on an unmatched tragedy.

Matsukawa knew all about silence; he offered her the time and breaths that impactful words required, and to her mother he hummed a melody that her peaceful lines inspired.

On Friday, he wandered along the streets like an eerie shadow, missing his corporeal shape; a shadow without the sun was but a mere summer memory.

Wednesday had been a lonely presence, and Thursday, a simple void. His Friday was brighter, filled with anticipation and giddy apprehension.

He counted the hours, walking along the cobble-stoned pavement of empty alleys. He tried to find new paths, new detours and flowers.

From hours, Matsukawa started counting minutes. His heart drummed to the sound of a song long rehearsed, never to be forgotten.

When he walked home to change into a decent suit, he didn’t drift; he rushed. He swam down the river, paying no mind to the nearing waterfall. He waltzed and pranced, let his heart get carried away until he was almost out of breath.

Matsukawa put on a turquoise costume, and, eyes blown wide with the funny drug of love, made his way towards the cafe.

*****

The liveliness of the sky’s tempers had died with the sun’s last appearance. Once winter won, nights grew longer.

They wrapped cities in stillness, ink black coats empty of fantasies and nuances. The complex patchworks of daytime were of no interest to the coldness of frosty hours; even dusk and dawn melted away, leaving an avid night in charge of the switching lights.

There was someone sitting at their table.

Not the one near the side-walk, mind you; winter scared away the living, trapped them inside the artificial warmth of their homes.

There was someone at their table, in the corner, near the aloe plant and the backdoor. A pretty lady, all in curves and ebony skin; she held a coffee cup. Matsukawa watched her like an illusion, like a déjà-vu, and for brief moment, thought she might get up and leave.

At any point in time, get up and leave, give them back their seats.

Leave the mug of bitter liquid to a strawberry blond darling.

The cafe was filled with people, filled with chatters and tinkling glass. There were groups of loud men dressed in every colours, there were some kids running around, barely paying any mind to the music.

There was a girl singing a Lady Gaga song. Her legs were twitching with stress, but she was doing well.

No one really listened anyway. No one ever did.

There was someone sitting at their table, and so Matsukawa found another one, in another corner. It was a bit far from the doors, but it provided a sense of shelter.

There, it would be easy to forget them. Easy to speak.

It was simpler to be two in a corner than alone in a crowd.

Yet, for once, he would have wanted for Hanamaki to be at the centre of the world. He’d have wanted for him to sit close, so close to the improvised stage, so that their eyes could meet as he sang.

Brief glances in a rear mirror, a smile for a note.

Matsukawa watched the stage and its speakers, watched the singers covered in lights and sweat. They came and went, introducing themselves in a few words before belting out their notes.

And then they would leave with no words, hurrying away in shame or hazy bliss.

Leave under the cheers, with not a silence in sight to soothe the pulsing rush of their bloods.

Matsukawa wished they could sit closer to the stage, so that no one could stand in between the song and his lover. He wished he had chosen another first day, quieter.

“It’s okay, I’ll still be able to see you from there. Relax and go.”

Hanamaki’s tender voice muted the rest, and his gentle smile blinded him to the reality of this hectic cafe that had once been silent enough for two wordless souls to meet; a muse and a singer.

Matsukawa chuckled weakly at his lover’s comforting words, his smile, his kindness, and averted his eyes. They met the empty cup of tea sitting in his hands, with no warmth to offer but the memory of its content.

The golden light of the lamps imitated the early autumn’s cold sun in a poorly executed show for freezing human beings.

It did not colour Hanamaki’s freckled face in shades of honey and topaz. It did not make his eyes shimmer like two stars in the middle of the day. It did not bring out the unmatched shade of his fuzzy strawberry hair.

The cafe’ set did not do any justice to its lead actor’s beauty, and so, maybe, in the end, it was better that Hanamaki wasn’t here.

*****

That night, there is not a second that passed without Matsukawa giving his full trust to his muse.

Not a second that passed without the firm belief that “He will come”.

He’ll be there.

The wait seemed endless, but the possibility of its completion was impossible. As midnight came, seconds stretched into absurd decimals.

Matsukawa spent days in that cafe, at that table, with a tea cup in his hands, long empty, freezing.

Weeks passed in matters of hours. People came in and out, sang and drank, laughed and gasped. Weeks passed, reaching their paroxysm on one Friday evening, nearing the first rays of a grey sun.

Someone told Matsukawa that the event was over, that the cafe would close.

He did not believe them, but he drifted away.

He found his way to an alley, to a park, to a historical neighbourhood.

He walked for days or hours, maybe minutes; for all he knew, time had always been a flow.

Matsukawa found himself wishing he could go home, to his own apartment or to his muse’s, but he lost his way to the control of his own mind; he found himself wishing he’d never reached the shore, that he could just drift as easily as ever.

Yet he simply couldn’t: there was a song in his mind, growing louder and louder, as heavy as a stone.

If he ever was to try and swim again, he would drown for good.

Days passed like hours, and a mocking blanket of clouds covered any hope for light. Matsukawa put a stop to his painful pacing and gazed up to the sky.

He watched.

Watched the pale colours of a godless world, every shade stolen away, missing the whisper of a muse to burst into artful beauty.

Mix every colours, and you get black.

Mix every sounds – each noise, each breath, each whisper, and you get white.

White noise, in a white world; a pale sunless sky.

Matsukawa had never felt so many words fighting for his lips, clawing at their softness as if they searched for the taste of strawberries. He felt them pull on his vocal chords, strangling him in their breathless commotion.

So many words he’d never said and thus could not utter, dying slowly on the shore of his lips; as if he’d been underwater all this while.

And alike white noise, he spoke none of them. They lost meaning in the wings of their performance, lost their intentions with a knee on the ground.

So many, many words, that the mix of their nuances turned to black.

Total silence.

In the end, maybe their quietness had always been made out of words. Maybe Matsukawa had so much to say that all he had left was black noise.

And maybe Hanamaki heard them.

Maybe, in the end, he had gotten used to the silences.

The hubbub of white noise felt so loud now that no one was there to steal his words with kisses and gazes.

He watched.

And, Lord _help him_ , but did it hurt.

Everything hurt, from his heart to his lungs, choking as he was on the water he’d slept on for years.

Everything hurt, everything ached, tore away at his heart, ready to claw it out.

And yet it was his fault. Who could he blame but himself, for trying to leave the bed of the river? For trying to leave at all, without turning back, without a last look at his cold shelter?

Yet again, even the strongest streams cannot withstand the mightiest of storms. Even the riverbed is sometimes too small for the tempest of emotions, the earthquake of a sudden breeze; a heartthrob is all it takes for it to simply overflow.

Even the river sometimes wants to run away.

Matsukawa did not speak a word; he would never speak again.

So many words, and they had all failed him.

Not a thought in his mind, not a sound on his lips.

He let his eyes fall back to the cold concrete, and followed the runoff of tragic floods. He stumbled along this trail of water, seeking his way home, hoping to drift again, and in his search, found himself facing the funeral home.

A first step. A first step back where he belonged, in a world of eternal silence and meaningless words.

There’s his colleague, behind the counter, assigning him to a body.

He shivers; he doesn’t have the heart to sing anymore.

It’s an accident, as they all are. Car, cardiovascular, inattention, omission…

If death wasn’t accidental, no one would ever die.

Matsukawa walked towards the preparation room. He put on his coat, his gloves, washed his hands. He drifted back into tune, or at least tried to.

For the first time in months, the world was silent. Without a single melody, only the occasional empty shell of words. Promises never fulfilled. Kisses left hanging.

As he walked towards the cold room, Matsukawa knew days were but flows.

He knew it from hours of drifting idleness, from endless seasons spent with no other sight but the blue ceiling of the sky.

It was Hanamaki who taught him that days eventually came to an end, before starting over…

So as he walked in, Matsukawa knew that painful days would always end.

He walked in with the feeble hope that his lover would be at the cafe, that evening, and that he would just have to wait. He hoped – hoped and knew that there was an explanation behind all pains, and behind all missed opportunities.

He knew there would be a first day, one that belonged to them. Even if accidental.

The silent man took the tools and approached the table; the sight took his words away.

It shouldn’t; he should be used to it.

But it does, finds its way through a crack in his heart and shatters it from the inside out.

For a few seconds, he cannot speak. He cannot think, and he just watches.

Watches, as a scene plays in front of his eyes that he might have forgotten about in the blinding beauty of his muse’ song.

A scene made of words, spoken and heard, standing out like spilled ink on white noise.

_\- Say, how do you survive the sight… the sight of it all?_

_\- I’ve always liked singing… And songs come to me easily…_

_There’s like little jukeboxes, in my head, and whenever I get sad or… whenever things get hard… I think of a song._

He trembled, caught himself onto the tool cart.

As always, unable to look away.

_I sing to the dead because it is my last day with them, and their last day with me._

He couldn’t do this. Not anymore.

He couldn’t hold on, and never should have.

The river was too strong, too cold, and it filled the silences with waves of crashing sounds.

In the end, he had always been drowning.

_But it is also your first day with them._

Matsukawa shivered. His breath was stolen away, and a low whimper filled the air.

There were emotions that silences could not convey.

And, despite his initial belief, love was one of them.

_There must be something greater than this, right, on the other side…_

A song danced in the back of his mind. Soft and sweet, like the golden sun of a cold autumn morning.

Or maybe was it that, in the end, he had always been lucky.

Whether it be a coincidence or a gentle match of fate, he’d met Hanamaki. And he would meet him again.

Maybe by accident.

_I sing for myself. To keep on living._

Peace. Slow, steady.

Peace filled Matsukawa’s mind, silent and ineffable. A stream as powerful as chaos, a lifelong state.

Filling the quietness of a broken world, a single rhythm after the white noise of a black storm.

Peace filled his mind, guided his hands.

As always.

_Will you teach me how to sing, someday?_

A smile grew on his lips, frail as the first flower of a new day. Battling against the cold and the pain, like a promise made to a dearest friend.

Maybe fate had nothing to do with the crossing of paths or the singing of rivers.

Maybe they’d met by accident, near the corner of Montebello Street.

Maybe it was all the doing of a cruel god, or a playful muse, stealing hearts and breaths never to give them back.

It didn’t matter; never did and never would.

Matsukawa drifted towards the table.

And gently, ever so gently, caressed a soft freezing cheek.

“ _Look at you, strawberry blond..._ ”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the song goes to Mitski for Strawberry Blond.  
> Alternative Songs:  
> \- lovely, Billie Eilish  
> \- Let me down slowly, Alec Chamber  
> \- Arcade, Duncan Laurence
> 
> Ever since I learnt Mattsun became a funeral home employee, I thought "What could be worse than preparing your best friend/lover's body?"  
> And from this single thought sprung Strawberry Blond 
> 
> Comments are appreciated! Much love to y'all ~~


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